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THE  COLLECTION  OF  ft   POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR 
©HE   BOSTON   DAILY  GLOBE, 

AND  MANY  OTHER  POEMS, 

WITH     BIOGRAPHY     AND     PORTRAIT. 


\ 


"  COMMEND  me  to  the  friend  that  comes 

When  I  am  sad  and  lone, 
And  makes  the  anguish  of  my  heart 

The  suffering  of  his  own; 
Who  coldly  shuns  the  glittering  throng 

At  pleasure's  gay  levee, 
And  comes  to  gild  a  sombre  hour 

And  give  his  heart  to  me. 

He  hears  me  count  my  sorrows  o'er; 

And  when  the  task  is  done 
He  freely  gives  me  all  I  ask,  — 

A  sigh  for  every  one. 
He  cannot  wear  a  smiling  face 

When  mine  is  touched  with  gloom, 
But  like  the  violet  seeks  to  cheer 

The  midnight  with  perfume. 

Commend  me  to  that  generous  heart 

Which  like  the  pine  on  high 
Uplifts  the  same  unvarying  brow 

To  every  change  of  sky; 
Whose  friendship  does  not  fade  away 

When  wintry  tempests  blow, 
But  like  the  winter's  icy  crown 

Looks  greener  through  the  snow. 

He  flies  not  with  the  flitting  stork, 

That  seeks  a  southern  sky, 
But  lingers  ichere  the  wounded  bird 

Hath  laid  him  doien  to  die. 
Oh,  such  a  friend !     He  is  in  truth, 

What  e'er  his  lot  may  be, 
A  rainbow  on  the  storm  of  life, 

An  anchor  on  its  sea. 

—  Garfield's  Favorite  Verse*. 


JAMES  ABEAM   GARFIELD, 

TWENTIETH  PRESIDENT  OF  THE   UNITED   STATES. 


THE 


POETS'    TRIBUTES 


TO 


GAEFIELD 


THE  COLLECTION  OF  POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  THE 

BOSTON  DAILY  GLOBE,  AND  MANY 

SELECTIONS 


itf)  portrait  anli 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 
PUBLISHED    BY    MOSES    KING 

HARVARD  SQUARE 

1881 


COPYRIGHT,  1881, 
BY  GLOBE  NEWSPAPER  COMPANY. 


FRAXKLIN  PRESS: 

STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  HAND,  AVERY,  AND  CO. 
BOSTON. 


Stac* 


5" 
OS'O 


OONTEiN'TS. 


PAGE 

GARFIELD'S  FAVORITE  VERSES 1 

PORTRAIT     .        . 2 

CONTENTS 5 

BIOGRAPHY 7 

GrABFIELD'S  FAVORITE  HYMN 21 

AFTER  THE  BURIAL 22 

THE  TRIBUTES  FROM  THE  POETS 25 

POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  BOSTON  GLOBE :  — 

By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 28 

By  JOAQUIN  MILLER 31 

By  H.  BERNARD  CARPENTER 33 

By  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY 33 

By  CHARLES  TURNER  DAZEY 36 

By  JULIA  WARD  HOWE 37 

By  KATE  TANNATT  WOODS       . 38 

By  LOUISA  PARSONS  HOPKINS .40 

By  MARIE  E.  BLAKE 41 

By  MINOT  J.  SAVAGE 42 

By  FRANCIS  A.  NICHOLS 45 

By  JOSEPH  W.  NYE 47 

POEMS   WRITTEN   FOR   OTHER   PAPERS:  — 

By  J.  W.  TURNER  .        .        .    East-Boston  Advocate        .        .  49 

By  CALEB  D.  BRADLEE      .         Boston  Daily  Advertiser         .  50 
By  ERIC  S.  ROBERTSON  .        .     New-York  Herald      .        .        .51 

2090872 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS   WRITTEN  FOB   OTHER  PAPERS:  — 

By  CHABLOTTE  FISKE  BATES.    Boston  Transcript 


ANONYMOUS  .... 

By  J.  G.  HOLLAND,. 

ANONYMOUS  .... 

By  L.  M.  S.      . 

By  GEORGE  A.  PARKHURST. 

By  D.  GILBERT  DEXTER 

ANONYMOUS  .... 

By  HENRY  C.  DANE 

By  S.  V.  A.  . 

By  ANNA  FOBD  PIPEB   . 

By  EMMA  POMEBOY  EATON. 

By  D.  P 

By  H.  L.  HASTINGS     . 


A  London  Weekly  . 

Frank  Leslie's  Illus.  Newspaper 

Boston  Transcript 

Lowell  Weekly  Journal  . 

Cambridge  Tribune 

Boston  Commonwealth    . 

Boston  Transcript 

Boston  Home  Journal 

Boston  Transcript 

Boston  Transcript  . 

The  Capital         .... 

Boston  Journal 


By  HKZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH.    Cincinnati  Gazette 


By  T.  H.  C.  .        . 

ANONYMOUS 

ANONYMOUS . 

By  EVA  McNAiB  PARSONS 

By  WALT  WHITMAN    . 

ANONYMOUS 

By  JAMES  FRANKLIN  FITTS. 

By  E.  S.  B.       . 

By  ABTHUB  N.  WILLCUTT. 

By  JOHN  READE 

By  LILIAN  WHITING   . 

By  C.  H.  C.      . 

By  W.  D.  KELLY 


Boston  Transcript  . 
London  Spectator 
Andrews'  American  Queen 
Louisville  Courier-Journal . 


51 
52 

52 
53 
54 
56 
56 
57 
58 
60 
61 
62 
62 
65 
66 
69 
69 
70 
70 


J.  E.  Osgood  &  Co.' s  new  volume    71 

Puck 72 

Philadelphia  North-American  73 
Publishers'  Weekly  .  .  .74 
Boston  Po*t  ....  74 
Montreal  Gazette  .  .  .75 
Cincinnati  Commercial  .  .  76 
New-York  Tribune  .  .  .77 
Boston  Pilot  .  79 


THE  POETS'  TRIBUTES  TO  GARFIELD. 


BIOGRAPHY. 


FROM    THE    CRADLE. 

A    SCRAP  *OF     GENEALOGY. THE     BIRTHPLACE.  FROM     INFANCY    TO 

BOYHOOD. 

JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD,  the  deceased  President  of  the  United 
States,  was  born  in  the  little  town  of  Orange,  Ohio,  Nov.  19,  1831, 
and  came  from  New-England  stock.  On  the  paternal  side  his 
ancestry  runs  back  to  Edward  Garfield,  who  in  1 635  was  recorded 
as  one  of  the  proprietors  of  what  is  now  the  town  of  Watertown, 
Mass.  His  mother  was  a  descendant  of  one  of  those  Huguenots 
whom  the  famous  "Edict  of  Nantes"  drove  from  their  beloved 
France  to  seek  religious  freedom  in  the  New  World.  From  the 
Garflelds  he  inherited  physical  and  moral  strength ;  while  from  his 
mother  he  received  that  intellectual  vigor  and  those  fine  mental 
qualities  which  have  marked  in  many  generations  the  descendants 
of  Maturin  Ballon.  President  Garfield's  birthplace  was  a  log- 
cabin,  in  a  wilderness  some  fifteen  miles  from  that  modest  home 
which  he  left  in  order  to  take  up  his  residence  at  the  White  House. 
He  was  the  youngest  of  four  children,  who  were  left  fatherless 
eighteen  months  after  his  birth.  The  widowed  mother  held  her 
homestead  farm,  and  her  children  together  upon  it.  Thomas,  the 
oldest,  and  the  only  other  boy,  was  a  manly  liule  fellow,  and  did 
what  he  could  to  help,  while  the  sisters  also  made  themselves  use- 
ful in  the  household.  At  the  early  age  of  three  years  James 

7 


8  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

began  to  attend  school  in  a  little  log-schoolhouse,  the  site  for 
which  had  been  given  by  Mrs.  Garfield.  He  was  an  apt  scholar, 
and  at  the  age  of  eight  years  was  a  good  reader,  speller,  and 
writer.  Books  were  his  delight ;  and  among  the  works  with  which 
he  became  thoroughly  acquainted  during  his  boyhood  were  ' '  Jose- 
phus"  and  Goodrich's  "History  of  the  United  States."  With 
the  Bible  he  was  familiar  from  the  first;  for  Mrs.  Garfield,  a 
devoted  adherent  of  the  "  Campbellite  "  faith,  was  fully  mindful 
of  her  children's  spiritual  interests,  and  carefully  implanted  in 
their  minds  the  truths  of  the  Christian  religion.  He  remained  at 
home  until  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  pursued  his  studies  with  as 
much  vigor  as  ever,  did  chores  about  his  mother's  place,  worked 
for  other  people  as  he  had  opportunity,  and  proved  himself  a  capa- 
ble and  industrious  lad.  He  was  about  seventeen  years  old  when 
he  finally  started  to  enter  upon  the  seafaring  life  whioh  he  had 
long  dreamed  of.  Arriving  at  Cleveland,  to  ship  before  the  mast 
upon  some  of  the  lake  craft,  circumstances  compelled  him  to 
abandon  the  plan ;  and  he  was  led  to  become  a  driver  on  a  canal 
tow-path.  As  driver,  and  then  as  boatman,  he  worked  on  the 
Ohio  Canal  several  months. 


TO  YOUTH   AND  MANHOOD. 

OBTAINING    AN    EDUCATION. CAREER   AS    A     TEACHER. THE     FIRST 

POLITICAL    SPEECH. 

In  March,  1849,  young  Garfield  became  a  student  in  the  Geauga 
Seminary,  a  Freewill  Baptist  institution  at  Chester.  At  the  end 
of  the  term  he  worked  at  haying  and  carpentering.  During  his 
first  year  he  paid  all  his  expenses,  and  had  a  few  dollars  left. 
Teaching  was  his  occupation  during  the  interval  between  his  first 
and  second  year  at  Chester ;  and  as  a  teacher  he  proved  himself 
a  master  in  his  school.  It  was  one  of  those  "'district"  schools, 
not  yet  things  of  the  past,  even  in  New  England,  the  male  pupils 
in  which  regard  the  teacher  as  a  natural  enemy.  Garfield  proved 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  9 

himself  the  physical  as  well  as  the  intellectual  superior  of  lads 
committed  to  his  charge,  and  ruled  them  as  well  as  taught  them. 
After  his  course  at  Chester,  young  Garfield,  in  the  fall  of  1851, 
entered  the  Hiram  Institute,  where  the  course  of  instruction  was 
considerably  more  advanced  than  any  which  he  had  yet  taken. 
Devoting  himself  to  his  studies  with  the  vigor  which  had  marked 
his  efforts  thus  far,  teaching  in  the  winters  and  keeping  up  his  own 
work  steadily,  he  found  himself  in  June,  1854,  not  only  ready  to 
enter  college,  but  to  enter  the  junior  class.  He  had  paid  his  way, 
and  had  saved  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  toward  defray- 
ing his  expenses  at  college.  So  he  entered  the  junior  class  of 
Williams  College,  in  this  State,  in  the  fall  of  1854,  and  graduated 
in  1856  with  the  metaphysical  honors  of  the  class.  He  was  now 
twenty-five ;  and,  as  the  result  of  his  constant  self-denying  toil  of 
nearly  twenty  years,  he  had  a  collegiate  education,  a  few  thread- 
bare clothes,  a  score  or  more  of  college  text-books,  his  diploma, 
and  a  debt  of  four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  He  was  at  once 
elected  teacher  of  Latin  and  Greek  in  the  college  at  Hiram.  The 
college  was  poor  and  in  debt,  but  Gartield  threw  all  his  energies 
into  the  work  of  building  it  up.  He  soon  became  distinguished  as 
a  teacher,  and  students  from  far  and  near  flocked  to  Hiram.  In 
1858,  while  teacher  of  Latin  and  Greek  at  Hiram,  Garfield  was 
married  to  Miss  Lucretia  Rudolph,  his  former  pupil  at  Hiram  and 
schoolmate  at  Chester  Academy ;  and  she  soon  proved  herself  a 
most  efficient  helpmeet.  In  1856  young  Garfield  entered  the 
arena  of  politics,  becoming  interested  in  the  Kansas-Nebraska 
affairs.  He  ranged  himself  in  the  ranks  of  the  Republican  party,* 
and  became  an  earnest  worker  for  its  principles.  His  first  political 
speech  was  made  in  Williamstown,  in  1856,  just  before  he  left 
college,  in  behalf  of  Fremont,  the  first  Republican  candidate  for 
the  presidency.  His  first  vote  was  cast  at  the  presidential  election 
that  fall.  In  1859  he  was  elected  by  a  large  majority  to  the  Sen- 
ate of  Ohio  from  the  counties  of  Portage  and  Summit,  and,  though 
yet  scarcely  twenty-eight,  at  once  took  high  rank  as  a  man  unusu- 
ally well  informed  on  the  subjects  of  legislation,  and  effective  and 
powerful  in  debate.  His  most  intimate  friend  in  the  State  Senate 
was  J.  D.  Cox,  who  afterwards  became  a  major-general,  governor 


10  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    I'O   GAEFIELD. 

of  the  State,  and  Secretary  of  the  Interior.  The  two  young  senators 
roomed  together,  studied  together,  and  helped  each  other  in  the 
work  of  legislation.  Garfield  pushed  his  law-studies  forward,  and 
early  in  the  winter  of  1861  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  the  Supreme 
Court. 


TO   THE   DEFENCE    OF   COUNTRY, 

WITH    VOICE    AND    ARM.  HISTORY    OF    GEN.    GARFIELD's 

SOLDIER   LIFE. 

When  the  secession  of  the  Southern  States  took  place,  Gar- 
field's  course  was  manly  and  outspoken.  He  was  serving  in  the 
State  Senate  when  hostilities  broke  out ;  and,  when  the  President's 
call  for  seventy- five  thousand  men  was  read  in  the  chamber,  amidst 
the  tumultuous  acclamation  of  the  assemblage,  he  moved  that 
twenty  thousand  troops  and  three  million  dollars  should  at  once  be 
voted  as  the  quota  of  the  State.  When  the  time  came  for  ap- 
pointing the  officers  for  the  Ohio  troops,  Gov.  Dennison  offered 
him  command  of  the  Forty-second  Infantry ;  but  he  modestly  de- 
clined on  account  of  his  lack  of  military  experience.  But  he  was 
willing  to  serve  in  a  less  responsible  capacity  ;  and,  resigning  the 
presidency  of  Hiram  College,  he  accepted  a  commission  as  lieu- 
tenant-colonel. A  few  weeks  later,  when  the  Forty-second  was 
organized,  he  yielded  to  the  universal  desire  of  its  officers,  and 
accepted  the  colonelcy.  The  regiment  took  the  field  in  Eastern 
Kentucky  in  December,  1861  ;  and  on  the  20th  of  that  month  Col. 
Garfield  was  assigned  to  the  command  of  the  Eighteenth  Brigade, 
and  was  ordered  by  Gen.  Buell  to  drive  Humphrey  Marshall  out  of 
the  Sandy  valley.  By  a  forced  march  he  reached  Marshall's  posi- 
tion near  Prestonburg  at  daybreak,  fell  upon  him  with  impetuosity, 
and,  after  a  sharp  fight,  forced  him  to  burn  his  baggage  and  re- 
treat into  Virginia.  Afterward  he  was  ordered  to  join  BuelPs 
army,  which  was  then  on  its  way  to  re-enforce  Grant  at  Pittsburg 
Landing.  Thenceforward  for  a  time  the  military  career  of  Gen. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  11 

Garfield  was  merged  in  that  of  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland.  He 
held  no  separate  command  ;  and  hence  the  traces  of  his  great  mili- 
tary abilities  are  lost  in  the  general  operations  of  the  army,  or  only 
now  and  then  seen  in  the  complimentary  allusions  to  his  services 
which  were  so  often  made  by  his  superior  officers.  In  August, 
1862,  Gen.  Garfield's  health  failed,  and  he  was  sent  North  on  sick- 
leave.  As  he  was  about  leaving  for  home,  he  was  assigned,  by 
order  of  the  War  Department,  to  the  command  of  the  forces  at 
Cumberland  Gap ;  but  he  was  too  ill  to  accept  the  appointment. 
Upon  his  recovery  he  was  ordered  to  Washington,  and  detailed  as  a 
member  of  the  Fitz  John  Porter  court-martial,  which  occupied 
forty-five  days,  and  in  which  his  great  abilities  as  a  lawyer  and  a 
soldier  were  called  forth  and  freely  recognized.  When  the  court 
adjourned  in  January,  1863,  Gen.  Garfield  was  ordered  to  report 
to  Major-Gen.  Rosecrans,  commanding  the  Army  of  the  Cumber- 
land, then  at  Murfreesborough,  Tenn.,  who  made  him  chief  of  staff. 
He  remained  with  Gen.  Rosecrans  until  after  the  battle  of  Chicka- 
mauga,  which  was  his  last  event  of  prominence  in  military  life. 
For  his  "gallant  conduct  and  important  services"  in  this  battle 
(where  he  wrote  every  order  but  one,  submitting  each  to  Gen. 
Robecrans,  only  to  have  them  forwarded  without  alteration),  he 
was  made  a  major-general.  This  happened  upon  Sept.  19,  1863. 


AS   A   STATESMAN. 

ELECTION*    TO    CONGRESS. A    THRILLING    INCIDENT. THE    MAN    FOR 

THE   CRISIS. 

In  the  summer  of  1862  he  was  elected  to  Congress  from  the 
nineteenth  district  in  Ohio.  At  that  time  everybody  supposed  the 
war  was  going  to  end  in  a  few  months.  Garfield  was  then  with 
his  command  in  Kentucky.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  any  such 
movement  in  his  behalf ;  and,  when  he  accepted  the  nomination, 
he  did  so  in  the  belief  that  the  Rebellion  would  be  subdued  before 


12  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

he  would  be  called  upon  to  take  his  seat  in  the  House  in  December, 
1863.  He  was  elected  by  a  majority  of  over  ten  thousand.  After 
his  promotion  to  be  major-general,  Gen.  Thomas  offered  him  the 
command  of  a  corps ;  but  President  Lincoln,  who  had  a  high  re- 
gard for  him,  urged  him  to  resign  his  commission,  and  take  his 
seat  in  Congress,  and  urged  so  strenuously  that  his  advice  pre- 
vailed. On  Dec.  5,  1863,  therefore,  Gen.  Garfield,  having  served 
in  the  army  more  than  a  year  after  his  election,  resigned,  and  took 
his  place  in  the  National  House.  Just  after  Lincoln's  assassina- 
tion, Garfield,  who  happened  to  be  in  New  York,  attended,  as  one 
of  the  speakers,  a  mass-meeting  held  hi  Wall  Street,  to  consider 
the  fearful  situation.  Every  one  was  wild  with  excitement  and 
grief  ;  and  the  people,  almost  driven  to  madness,  were  determined 
to  wreak  vengeance.  What  followed  is  best  described  in  the  lan- 
guage of  an  eye-witness  :  — 

' '  By  this  time  the  wave  of  popular  indignation  had  swelled  to 
its  crest.  Two  men  lay  bleeding  on  one  of  the  side  streets,  —  one 
dead,  the  other  dying ;  one  on  the  pavement,  the  other  in  the  gut- 
ter. They  had  said  a  moment  before  that  Lincoln  '  ought  to  have 
been  shot  long  ago.'  They  were  not  allowed  to  say  it  again. 
Soon  two  long  pieces  of  scantling  stood  out  above  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  crossed  at  the  top  like  the  letter  X,  and  a  looped  halter 
pendent  from  the  junction.  A  dozen  men  followed  its  slow  motion 
through  the  masses,  while  '  vengeance'  was  the  cry.  On  the  right, 
suddenly  the  shout  arose,  '  The  World  !'  '  The  World  !'  '  The  office 
of  the  World,  World  !'  and  a  movement  of  perhaps  eight  thousand 
or  ten  thousand  turning  their  faces  hi  the  direction  of  that  building 
began  to  be  executed.  It  was  a  critical  moment.  What  might 
come,  no  one  could  tell,  did  that  crowd  get  in  front  of  that  office. 
The  police  and  military  would  have  availed  little,  or  been  too  late. 
A  telegram  had  just  been  read  from  Washington,  '  Seward  is 
dying.'  Just  then  a  man  stepped  forward  with  a  small  flag  in  his 
hand,  and  beckoned  to  the  crowd  :  '  Another  telegram  from  Wash- 
ington ;'  and  then,  in  the  awful  stillness  of  the  crisis,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  hesitation  of  the  crowd,  whose  steps  had  been  arrested 
for  a  moment,  a  right  arm  was  lifted  skyward,  and  a  voice  clear 
and  steady,  loud  and  distinct,  spoke  out,  '  Fellow-citizens,  clouds 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  13 

and  darkness  are  round  about  him.  His  pavilion  is  dark  waters 
and  thick  clouds  of  the  skies.  Justice  and  judgment  are  the 
establishment  of  his  throne.  Mercy  and  truth  shall  go  before  his 
face.  Fellow-citizens,  God  reigns,  and  the  government  at  Wash- 
ington still  lives."  The  effect  was  tremendous.  The  crowd  stood 
riveted  to  the  spot  in  awe,  gazing  at  the  motionless  orator,  and 
thinking  of  God  and  the  security  of  the  government  in  that  hour. 
As  the  boiling  wave  subsides  and  settles  to  the  sea  when  some 
strong  wind  beats  it  down,  so  the  tumult  of  the  people  sank  and 
became  still.  All  took  it  as  a  divine  omen.  It  was  a  triumph  of 
eloquence,  inspired  by  the  moment,  such  as  falls  to  but  one  man's 
lot,  and  that  but  once  in  a  century.  The  genius  of  Webster, 
Choate,  Everett,  or  Seward,  never  reached  it.  Demosthenes  never 
equalled  it.  What  might  have  happened,  had  the  surging  and 
maddened  mob  been  let  loose,  none  can  tell.  The  man  for  the 
crisis  was  on  the  spot,  more  potent  than  Napoleon's  guns  at  Paris. 
I  inquired  what  was  his  name.  The  answer  came  in  a  low  whis- 
per, '  It  is  Gen.  Garfield  of  Ohio.'  " 

Such  was  the  man^whom  the  nation  mourns.  His  pure  and  sim- 
ple manhood  was  his  chief  characteristic.  It  showed  itself  in 
all  his  works,  and  in  the  last  dark  hours  when  he  passed  through 
the  vallev  of  the  shadow  of  death. 


IN  THE  CHURCH. 

HIS    DEVOTION    TO    THE    CHRISTIAN    RELIGION. HIS    ENTHUSIASM    AS 

A    DISCIPLE. 

For  such  a  man,  only  a  pure  and  simple  religion  was  possible ; 
and  his  faith  was  like  his  life,  —  plain  and  unostentatious.  While 
a  student  at  Hiram  College  he  connected  himself  with  the  Church 
of  the  Disciples,  a  sect  founded  by  Alexander  Campbell,  and 
sometimes  called  "  Campbellites."  This  church  has  a  large  mem- 
bership in  West  Virginia,  Kentucky,  and  Southern  and  Eastern 


14  THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

Ohio.  "Its  principal  peculiarities  are  its  refusal  to  formulate  its 
beliefs  into  a  creed,  the  independence  of  each  denomination,  the 
hospitality  and  fraternal  feeling  of  the  members,  and  the  lack  of 
any  regular  ministry."  The  Scriptures  are  accepted  without  note 
or  comment,  and  any  member  can  address  the  assemblies.  Gar- 
field,  who  never  did  any  thing  by  halves,  entered  heartily  into 
the  work  of  this  communion,  and  soon  became  one  of  the  most 
prominent  members  of  the  church  at  Hiram.  This  connection 
with  the  sect  was  never  severed.  "Almost  every  day,"  said 
the  pastor  of  the  Mentor  Disciple  Church,  referring  to  a  revival- 
meeting  in  which  the  President  was  once  interested,  "I  would 
bring  some  one  in  who  was  hesitating,  to  let  Gen.  Garfield  talk 
to  him  about  some  point  on  which  he  was  in  doubt ;  *and  the  Presi- 
dent always  made  it  clear  to  him.  One  morning  I  brought  in  a 
political  friend  of  the  general's,  and  a  prominent  local  politician, 
who  had  made  a  confession  of  religion  the  night  before.  When  I 
told  Gen.  Garfield  what  his  friend  had  done,  he  stepped  quickly 
forward,  and,  putting  one  arm  around  his  shoulder,  he  congratu- 
lated him,  and  then  taking  his  hand  said,  with  an  impressiveness 
which  I  can  never  forget,  '  This  is  right,  Christian.  Remember 
always  that  this  is  a  battle  where  we  struggle  on  to  a  beginning, 
but  that  it's  in  the  endless  cycles  of  eternity  that  our  lives  must  be 
rounded  and  perfected.'  " 


HIS  WIFE   AND   CHILDREN. 

BLEST  IN   EVERY  DOMESTIC    RELATION.  PICTURE  OF   A   MODEL  HOMK. 

An  account  like  this  which  did  not  mention  the  noble  woman 
whose  heart,  of  all  sad  hearts  in  this  great  Republic  of  ours,  is  per- 
haps the  saddest  to-day,  would  indeed  be  incomplete.  He  met  her 
first  in  the  spring  of  1849,  at  Chester,  Ohio,  where  they  were  both 
pupils  at  an  academy.  She  was  then  seventeen  years  old :  that 
also  was  the  age  of  her  future  husband.  Her  name  was  Lucretia 
Rudolph.  Her  father.  Zebulou  Rudolph,  was  a  Maryland  farmer 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  15 

from  the  Shenandoah  Valley.  Her  mother,  Arabella  Mason,  born 
in  Hartford,  Vt.,  was  the  scion  of  an  old  Connecticut  family. 
There  is  a  tradition  in  the  Rudolph  family,  that  one  of  Mrs.  Gar- 
field's  grand-uncles  was  the  brilliant  soldier  Marshal  Ney.  When 
Garfield  went  to  Williams  College,  Miss  Rudolph  commenced  teach- 
ing in  the  Cleveland  public  schools,  continuing  that  work  until  he 
became,  in  1858,  the  head  of  Hiram  University;  then  they  were 
mai'ried.  They  have  continued  their  classical  studies  to  their  own 
pleasure,  and  to  the  advantage  of  their  older  children,  whom  Mrs. 
Garfield  has  thoroughly  grounded  in  Latin  and  Greek.  She  has 
borne  the  general  six  children,  of  whom  five  are  living.  The  first, 
a  daughter,  died  in  infancy ;  Harry  Augustus,  aged  eighteen,  and 
James  R.,  aged  sixteen,  have  entered  Williams  College,  their  father's 
alma  mater.  Mary,  the  daughter  of  the  family,  is  fourteen  years 
old.  The  younger  children  are  Irwin  McDowell,  ten  years  old, 
and  Abram,  seven  years  old.  The  President  said  of  her  less  than 
a  year  ago,  "  I  have  been  wonderfully  blest  in  the  discretion  of  my 
wife.  She  is  one  of  the  coolest  and  best-balanced  women  I  ever 
saw.  She  is  unstampedable.  There  has  not  been  one  solitary 
instance  in  my  public  career  where  I  suffered  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree for  any  remark  she  ever  made.  It  would  have  been  perfectly 
natural  for  a  woman  often  to  say  something  that  could  be  misinter- 
preted ;  but  without  any  design,  and  with  the  intelligence  and  cool- 
ness of  her  character,  she  has  never  made  the  slightest  mistake 
that  I  ever  heard  of." 


TO   THE   PRESIDENTIAL   CHAIR. 

HIS    NOMINATION    AND    ELECTION.  THE    LAST    DAYS    AT    MENTOR.  — 

GRANDEUR    OF    INDUCTION    INTO    OFFICE. 

At  the  Republican  National  Convention  in  Chicago,  in  June, 
1880,  Gen.  Garfield  was  chosen  as  the  candidate  for  President 
on  the  thirty-sixth  ballot,  after  the  convention  had  been  sitting  ten 
days.  At  the  national  election  in  November  last,  he  received  two 


16  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

hundred  and  fourteen  electoral  votes,  while  Gen.  Hancock  had  one 
hundred  and  fifty-five.  The  President-elect  passed  the  time  be- 
tween the  election  and  his  inauguration  in  retirement  at  his  home  in 
Mentor,  Ohio.  Did  the  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before? 
It  has  been  remembered  of  him  since,  how  he  clung  with  prophetic 
fondness  to  these  few  brief  days  of  happiness  at  his  own  peaceful 
fireside  in  the  companionship  of  his  beloved  wife.  It  has  been 
remembered  of  him  since,  how  he  looked  out  upon  the  great  untried 
sea  before  him  with  feelings  that  were  not  wholly  hopeful.  A  cor- 
respondent recalls  how,  coming  in  to  take  his  leave  once  after  a 
visit  during  this  time,  he  found  the  wife  sitting  in  the  room  where 
only  the  firelight  threw  out  its  ruddy  glow  upon  the  earnest, 
thoughtful  face  which  was  turned  toward  him.  He  asked  her, 
standing  there,  if  she  was  not  looking  forward  with  pleasurable 
anticipations  to  her  residence  in  the  White  House.  She  answered 
quickly,  and  with  unaffected  sincerity,  ' '  No :  I  can  only  hope  it 
will  not  be  altogether  unhappy,"  — words  which  now  seem  those 
of  an  almost  inspired  prophecy. 

At  last  the  time  drew  near  when  the  President-elect  was  to 
assume  the  precious  dignity  to  which  the  voice  of  his  countrymen 
had  called  him.  *  The  journey  from  Mentor  to  the  capital  was  a 
hopeful  and  a  joyful  one,  in  sad  contrast  to  that  journey  from  the 
capital  to  Cleveland  in  which  he  was  to  figure  in  the  coming 
months. 

The  4th  of  March  was  a  great  day  at  the  capital.  Washing- 
ton was  decked  out  in  her  gayest.  One  hundred  thousand  people 
stood  in  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  between  the  Treasury  and  the  Capi- 
tol grounds,  and  gave  acclaim  to  Garfield  as  he  passed.  The 
buildings  were  splendidly  decorated.  There  was  a  flag  and  a  dozen 
fluttering  handkerchiefs  at  every  window.  All  vehicles  were  ex- 
cluded from  the  avenue,  and  the  people  hemmed  in  the  procession 
ten  deep  on  each  side.  Garfield  rode  uncovered  nearly  the  whole 
distance.  The  procession  wound  around  the  southern  wing  of  the 
Capitol.  Garfield  and  Hayes  alighted  at  the  Senate  wing,  and 
entered  the  chamber. 

The  procession  started  from  the  White  House,  the  President 
being  escorted  by  the  first  division  ;  and,  on  the  return,  all  fell  into 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GABFIELD.  17 

line.  The  route  was  around  the  south  side  of  the  Capitol  to  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  thence  to  the  Treasury  Department,  and  so 
on  past  the  White  House.  During  the  time  between  12  and  1.30 
o'clock,  Penusj'lvania  Avenue  presented  a  remarkable  sight,  either 
from  the  Treasury  Department  or  the  Capitol.  The  crowd  was 
continuous  from  First  to  Fifteenth  Street ;  and,  as  the  time  for  the 
procession  to  move  approached,  the  crowd  increased,  so  that  there 
seemed  hardly  room  for  the  military  column  to  enter.  The  regular 
troops  led  the  way,  with  Sherman  at  their  head.  Behind  Sherman 
were  three  four-horse  carriages, — Presidents  Garfield  and  Hayes, 
Vice-Presidents  Arthur  and  Wheeler,  and  Senators  Pendleton  and 
Bayard.  In  addition  to  the  Cleveland  troops,  Gen.  Garfield  was 
attended  by  the  Columbia  Commandery  of  Knights  Templars  of 
the  city,  of  which  he  was  a  member.  When  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession reached  the  Treasury  Department,  the  avenue  for  its  whole 
mile  length  was  literally  packed  with  people.  There  was  a  pause 
at  this  point,  to  enable  the  President  to  leave  the  column,  and 
proceed  to  the  grand  stand  in  front  of  the  White  House,  where  he 
stood  hours  in  witnessing  the  passage  of  the  great  military  and 
civic  concourse,  which  was  over  three  hours  in  passing  a  given 
point.  The  route  was  then  continued  up  Pennsylvania  Avenue  to 
Washington  Circle,  along  K  Street  to  Vermont  Avenue,  and  past 
the  Thomas  statue,  down  Massachusetts  Avenue  to  Mount  Vernon 
Square,  where  the  procession  finally  dispersed. 

In  the  evening  the  ball  was  the  grandest  ever  seen  in  Washing- 
ton. Little  they  knew,  who  participated  in  the  festivities  of  this 
memorable  occasion,  of  the  scenes  which  would  be  enacted  in  the 
city  in  a  few  months,  —  how  the  crowds  would  again  throng  the 
streets  to  witness  a  procession.  Oh,  how  different !  how  the  city 
would  again  be  hung  with  drapery  and  flags,  but  with  so  opposite 
a  meaning ! 

Of  the  timys  between  the  4th  of  March  and  the  following  July, 
nothing  need  be  said.  Gen.  Garfield 's  administration  was  never 
fairly  opened.  It  was  but  a  promise,  the  fulfilment  of  which  never 
came. 


18  THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

THE   ASSASSIN'S   HAND. 

THE     TERRIBLE     CRIME    WHICH     SHOCKED     THE    WORLD.  THE     STORY 

OF    A   DAY    OF    SUSPENSE    AND    PAIN. 

TOWARD  the  last  of  June  the  President  prepared  to  leave  Wash- 
ington for  a  two-weeks'  trip  in  New  England.  Mrs.  Garfield,  who 
had  gone  to  Long  Branch  on  account  of  her  delicate  health,  was 
improving  rapidly.  It  was  arranged  that  she  and  the  two  sons  and 
a  daughter,  who  were  with  her,  should  join  the  general  and  the  elder 
boys,  James  and  Harry,  at  New  York  on  the  afternoon  of  July  2. 

Meanwhile  the  assassin  Guiteau  was  dogging  the  President  about 
the  streets  of  "Washington.  Having  decided  not  to  kill  him  at  the 
church,  and  being  deterred  at  the  depot  on  the  18th  of  June, 
according  to  his  own  confession,  by  the  sad,  weak,  and  frail  ap- 
pearance of  Mrs.  Garfield,  triumph  was  his  at  last  on  the  fatal  2d 
of  July.  Two  pistol-shots, — the  reverberation  of  which  thrilled 
round  the  world,  —  and  the  wretch  was  hurried  to  the  jail ! 

This  happened  on  July  2,  at  9.20  A.M.,  as  the  President  was 
passing  through  the  station  of  the  Baltimore  and  Potomac  Rail- 
road to  take  the  train.  Two  shots  were  fired  from  a  heavy  pistol, 
but  only  one  ball  hit  him.  He  fell  immediately.  The  physicians 
made  an  unavailing  attempt  to  discover  the  ball  at  the  depot.  It 
was  evident  that  nothing  could  be  done  in  the  presence  of  such  a 
crowd;  and  the  slight  chances  of  saving  the  President's  life 
depended  upon  placing  him  where  he  could  have  absolute  quiet. 
A  police  ambulance  was  sent  for,  and  it  was  backed  up  to  the 
B-street  entrance  of  the  depot.  The  President  was  brought  down- 
stairs upon  a  stretcher.  The  doors  were  thrown  open ;  and  the 
crowd  parted,  while  the  wounded  man  was  gently  laid  on  mat- 
tresses on  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle.  The  President  was  very 
pale  and  weak,  but  conscious.  He  opened  his  eyeg,  and  silently 
waved  his  hand  toward  the  crowd.  Strong  men  sobbed  at  the 
pitiful  sight.  As  the  ambulance  was  driven  up  to  the  south 
entrance  of  the  Executive  Mansion,  the  President  was  lifted  out. 
He  looked  up,  and  saw  Private  Secretaries  Brown  and  Cook  look- 
ing down  from  one  of  the  windows.  He  smiled,  and  saluted  them 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  19 

with  his  uninjured  arm.  He  was  taken  to  his  bed  of  sickness. 
During  the  painful  hours  that  followed,  he  called  frequently  for 
his  wife,  and  several  times  made  the  pitiful  inquiry,  "  Why  did  he 
shoot?  I  had  done  him  no  harm." 

The  President's  condition  was  considered  imminently  danger- 
ous, —  so  much  so  that  his  proper  treatment  was  neglected.  From 
the  time  when  the  wound  was  looked  at  by  Dr.  Townsend  at  9.30 
at  the  depot,  until  eight  at  night,  it  received  no  effection  ;  for  ten 
hours  and  a  half  the  surgeons  only  administered  hypodermic  injec- 
tions and  stimulants,  and  did  not  endeavor  to  ascertain  the  true 
nature  of  the  injury.  At  8  P.M.,  when  the  natural  consequences 
of  contusion  had  in  a  great  degree  closed  the  channel  of  the  bul- 
let, an  insufficient  and  unskilful  examination  was  made,  from  which 
it  was  concluded  that  the  missile  had  entered  the  body  about  two 
inches  to  the  right  of  the  fourth  lumbar  vertebra,  between  the 
tenth  and  eleventh  ribs,  had  passed  through  the  liver,  and  could 
not  be  traced  farther,  and  that  the  use  of  the  probe  would  be  im- 
proper. It  was  assumed,  not  ascertained,  that  the  wound  was 
mortal.  In  the  course  of  that  afternoon  Dr.  Bliss,  the  physician 
in  charge,  thought  that  the  evidences  of  internal  hemorrhage  were 
distinctly  recognizable,  and  that  collapse  was  imminent.  At  6.45 
P.M.  he  believed  the  patient  was  sinking  rapidly.  At  that  time 
the  physicians  considered  the  case  hopeless. 

Thenceforth  for  eighty  days  the  President  was  cared  for  by 
some  of  the  most  skilled  of  American  surgeons  and  physicians. 
From  time  to  time  there  were  signs  of  improvement,  and  then  again 
of  relapse ;  rays  of  hope  and  shadows  of  despair  alternated ;  but 
at  last,  on  the  nineteenth  day  of  September,  at  10.35  P.M.,  the 
President  died  in  Elberon  Cottage,  at  Long  Branch,  N.J. 

Though  hope  had  gradually  been  going  out,  —  though  it  had 
gone  out  entirely  in  the  hearts  of  all  but  the  most  sanguine,  —  no 
one  dreamed  of  the  swift  approach  of  the  dread  messenger.  The 
day  was  an  anniversary  in  the  life  of  the  suffering  President.  On 
the  19th  of  September,  just  eighteen  years  before,  he  had  been 
made  a  major-general  for  his  gallantry  at  the  battle  of  Chicka- 
mauga.  It  has  been  remembered  of  him  since,  that  he  had  said 
he  thought  he  should  die  upon  that  day.  Strange  fatality  ! 


20  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

The  remains  were  taken,  with  the  greatest  honors  ever  shown  an 
American,  to  Washington,  where  they  lay  in  state  in  the  Capitol 
until  their  removal  to  Cleveland,  Ohio,  where  they  were  placed  in 
their  final  resting-place  in  Lake  View  Cemetery.  The  day  of 
burial,  Monday,  Sept.  26,  was  a  day  of  mourning  throughout  the 
Union,  and  with  all  Americans  who  chanced  to  be  in  other  countries. 


TO   THE   GRAVE. 

A  MOURNFUL  PROCESSION  ALL  DAY  LONG  BY  THE  SPOT  WHERE  THE 
LATE  PRESIDENT'S  REMAINS  WERE  LYING  IN  STATE  FOR  THE  LAST 
TIME. 

ON  Sunday  Cleveland  was  full  to  overflowing.  At  the  lowest 
estimate,  there  were  two  hundred  thousand  strangers  in  the  city, 
and  the  number  was  constantly  increasing.  All  down  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  solemn  streets,  vast  crowds  surged  all  day  long. 
The  governors  of  eighteen  States  and  Territories,  and  their  staffs, 
and  about  forty  mayors  and  city  delegations  from  the  United  States 
and  Canada,  were  in  town  for  the  purpose  of  taking  part  in  the 
sorrowful  exercises.  In  the  morning  the  workmen  had  finished 
the  catafalque,  a  structure  worthy  of  the  cit}-  and  the  illustrious 
dead.  Long  before  daylight  the  people  had  formed  a  long  line 
on  the  west  side  of  the  square,  ready  for  the  opening  of  the  gate 
of  the  western  arch.  The  line  stretched  away  down  Superior 
Street,  men.  women,  and  children,  to  the  viaduct  that  spans  the 
river  valley,  and  far  across  that  to  the  other  side.  A  line  of  mili- 
tary guarded  the  long  procession  on  either  hand.  The  crowd  was 
silent.  There  was  no  loud  talk,  no  jostling,  no  laughter.  Pa- 
tiently, quietly,  and  as  though  the  funeral  were  that  of  a  near 
friend,  the  people  waited.  At  last,  about  eight  o'clock,  the  great 
gate  was  swung  open,  and  the  mournful  procession  passed  through, 
across  the  square,  and  up  the  sloping  platform  to  where  the  mortal 
remains  of  James  A.  Garfield  lay  in  state  for  the  last  time.  With 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  21 

heads  uncovered  and  bowed,  the  people  passed  by.  Tears  were 
in  every  eye,  and  many  wept  aloud.  It  was  a  most  affecting  and 
impressive  scene. 

Then  followed  the  funeral  services :  which  were  conducted  by 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Ross  E.  Houghton,  who  opened  with  prayer ;  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Isaac  Errett,  who  spoke  for  forty  minutes  in  a  touching 
and  impressive  manner;  and  the  Rev.  E.  S.  Pomeroj-,  who  closed 
the  exercises  at  the  Pavilion  with  a  prayer  and  benediction.  An 
appropriate  feature  of  the  services  was  the  singing  of  the  follow- 
ing verses,  —  President  Garfield's  favorite  hymn  :  — 

"HO!   EEAPEES   OF  LIFE'S  HARVEST." 

Ho!  reapers  of  life's  harvest, 

Why  stand  with  rusted  blade 
Until  the  night  draws  round  ye, 

And  day  begins  to  fade  ? 
Why  stand  ye  idle  waiting 

For  reapers  more  to  come  ? 
The  golden  morn  is  passing: 

Why  sit  ye  idle,  dumb? 

Thrust  in  your  sharpened  sickle, 

And  gather  in  the  grain: 
The  night  is  fast  approaching, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 
The  Master  calls  for  reapers ; 

And  shall  he  call  in  vain  ? 
Shall  sheaves  lie  there  ungathered, 

And  waste  upon  the  plain? 

Mount  up  the  heights  of  wisdom, 

And  crush  each  error  low ; 
Keep  back  no  words  of  knowledge 

That  human  hearts  should  know. 
Be  faithful  to  thy  mission, 

In  service  of  thy  Lord, 
And  then  a  golden  chaplet 

Shall  be  thy  just  reward. 


22  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 


"AFTER    THE    BURIAL." 


THE  last  sad  rites  are  over,  the  last  sad  words  are  spokeii : 
dust  has  been  returned  to  dust,  and  the  spirit  of  James  A.  Garfleld 
has  gone  to  the  God  who  gave  it.  The  people  of  this  nation  stood 
with  uncovered  heads,  with  heavy  hearts,  and  with  tear-stained 
faces,  by  the  open  door  of  the  tomb  of  the  martyred  President. 
Who  can  voice  their  sentiments,  their  sympathy,  and  their  sorrow? 
All  recognize  it  as  one  of  those  supreme  occasions  when  words  are 
inadequate,  when  the  kings  of  poetry  and  the  masters  of  prose 
lament  the  poverty  of  language  which  fails  to  portray  the  emotions 
of  a  great  people. 

The  marts  of  trade  were  closed ;  the  wheels  of  industry  were 
stopped ;  the  toiling  millions  rested  from  their  labors ;  thousands 
of  churches  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  were 
filled  by  men,  women,  and  children,  all  anxious  to  participate  in  the 
solemn  ceremonies  of  the  hour ;  and  nearly  all  the  buildings,  both 
public  and  private,  bore  sad  emblems  of  mourning,  from  the  elabo- 
rate and  costly  display  of  the  merchant  prince  to  the  tiny  flag  and 
little  black-and-white  streamers  on  the  cottage  of  the  humblest 
laborer.  There  were  universal  signs  of  mourning  everywhere,  and 
the  pages  of  history  will  never  show  more  pertinent  and  visible 
symbols  of  a  nation's  sorrow. 

The  story  of  the  President's  remarkable  career  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  the  terrible  tragedy  and  awful  suffering  which  ended 
in  death  after  weeks  of  horrible  torture,  the  lessons  of  his  life 
and  of  the  event  to  the  nation,  were  set  forth  by  masters  of  ora- 
tory, while  the  soothing  strains  of  music  and  the  sweet  consoling 
stanzas  of  the  song-writers  were  added  to  help  voice  the  emotions 
of  the  people.  At  first  sight  the  eulogies  here  and  there  may  have 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  23 

seemed  a  trifle  extravagant  in  language ;  but  we  do  not  believe  the 
picture  was  overdrawn  in  a  single  instance  by  any  intelligent 
speaker.  A  man  born  in  humble  circumstances,  who  digs  his  edu- 
cation out  of  books  and  experience  while  fighting  for  his  own 
maintenance  and  that  of  a  widowed  mother ;  who  ascends  the 
ladder  of  fame,  round  by  round,  in  the  face  of  fierce  opposition 
and  sharp  competition,  and  in  his  prime  has  reached  the  highest 
office  in  the  gift  of  the  American  people,  —  such  a  man  deserved 
lasting  credit,  and  no  words  of  eulogy  can  picture  such  a  life  in 
colors  too  glowing  to  suit  the  people  and  to  meet  the  requirements 
of  the  case.  And  "  it  was  the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off  " 
which  brought  the  early  struggles  and  striking  successes  of  James 
A.  Garfield  so  conspicuously  before  the  eyes  of  the  nation,  and 
caused  a  deeper  appreciation  of  the  magnitude  of  his  achieve- 
ments. And  it  is  for  these  reasons  that  no  orator  could  find  lan- 
guage to  surpass  the  expectations  of  the  people,  or  words  even 
adequately  to  convey  their  appreciation  of  the  record  of  the  man. 
Mr.  Sumner,  in  his  eulogy  on  Abraham  Lincoln,  truthfully  re- 
marked, "In  the  universe  of  God,  there  are  no  accidents.  From 
the  fall  of  a  sparrow  to  the  fall  of  an  empire,  or  the  sweep  of  a 
planet,  all  is  according  to  divine  Providence,  whose  laws  are  ever- 
lasting. It  was  no  accident  which  gave  to  his  country  the  patriot 
whom  we  now  honor.  It  was  no  accident  which  snatched  this 
patriot  so  suddenly  and  so  cruelly  from  his  sublime  duties." 
These  words  may  be  aptly  applied  to  the  event  the  final  chapter 
of  which  was  written  yesterday.  The  death  of  President  Garfield 
was  no  accident.  God  saw  fit,  in  his  infinite  wisdom,  to  bring  the 
sad  calamity  upon  this  nation ;  and  all  bow  to  his  powerful  decree. 
So  far  as  1m  man  vision  can  reach,  it  has  called  forth  a  spontaneous 
outburst  of  patriotism  and  sympathy  from  fifty  millions  of  people  ; 
has  lifted  them  up  to  a  higher  plane  of  thought  and  action ;  has 
shown  that  the  people  of  these  United  States,  North,  South,  East, 
and  West,  have  again  firmly  riveted  the  bonds  which  make  them 
one  nation  and  one  grand  section  of  the  brotherhoods  of  the 
earth.  It  has  taught  us  to  be  more  charitable,  one '  toward  the 
other,  and  to  take  that  broad  and  comprehensive  view  of  human 
nature  which  leads  us  to  value  men  for  what  they  are  rather  than 


24  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

for  what  they  are  not.     What  other  lessons  the  event  may  teach 
us,  time  alone  can  show. 

Now  that  the  door  of  the  tomb  is  closed,  the  great  heart  of  the 
nation  should  go  out  in  sympathy  to  that  aged  mother,  that  devoted 
wife,  and  the  fatherless  children.  When  death  comes  our  grief 
is  great ;  but  there  is  always  a  certain  degree  of  consolation  in 
looking  upon  the  lifeless  remains  of  the  departed.  It  is  when  the 
coffin  has  been  lowered  into  the  newly-made  grave,  or  the  door  of 
the  tomb  is  shut,  and  we  go  to  our  homes,  that  the  complete 
realization  comes  painfully  and  forcibly  to  our  minds  and  hearts. 
It  is  when  we  see  the  vacant  chair  at  the  table,  or  the  chair  by  the 
window  with  the  view  that  father  loved  so  well ;  it  is  when  the 
rooms  of  our  home  seem  so  desolate,  and  we  cannot  have  the  sad 
satisfaction  of  seeing  even  the  cold  clay  which  held  the  soul ;  it  is 
when  the  photograph  of  the  well-remembered  face  seems  to  look  at 
us  from  its  post  of  honor  in  the  album,  or  from  the  wall  or  mantle, 
and  we  miss  him  in  a  thousand  ways  in  the  little  domestic  circle,  — 
then  it  is  the  heart  is  heaviest,  the  cup  of  grief  is  filled  to  over- 
flowing, and  the  future  looks  so  hopelessly  sad  and  dismal.  And 
this  is  why  the  sympathy  and  prayers  and  tears  of  the  nation  should 
to-day  follow  the  members  of  the  Garfield  family  to  Mentor;  for, 
when  they  reach  their  old  homestead,  — which  the  son,  husband,  and 
father  left  a  few  short  months  ago  full  of  life  and  hope  and  "  with 
his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him," — then  will  their  grief  be 
most  intense,  and  their  anguish  most  poignant.  That  the  God  of 
the  widow  and  the  fatherless  will  watch  over  and  bless  them  all 
the  way  along  in  their  pathway  of  life ;  and  that  the  stricken 
mother,  the  sorrowing  wife,  and  the  fatherless  children  may  all 
meet  the  faithful  son,  the  devoted  husband,  and  the  tender  father 
in  the  grand  reunion  on  the  shores  beyond, — is  the  sincere  and 
earnest  prayer  of  every  patriotic  heart. 

—  BOSTON  GLOBE,  Sept.  27,  1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GABFIELD.  25 


THE    TRIBUTES    FROM    THE   POETS. 


JOURNALISM,  to-day,  makes  another  gigantic  stride  in  its  onward 
march  to  perfection  and  the  complete  realization  of  its  huge  possi- 
bilities. It  has  explored  continents ;  its  needs  have  compelled 
science  to  girdle  the  earth  with  a  continuous  electric  belt ;  its 
power  makes  and  unmakes  men  ;  its  methods  have  annihilated  dis- 
tance and  time  as  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  rapid  and  faithful 
chronicling  of  events.  And  during  all  this  gradual  and  steady 
development,  it  has  been  improving  in  tone  and  spirit :  as  it  grows 
more  powerful,  it  grows  less  arbitrary  ;  as  its  facilities  for  record- 
ing the  doings  of  the  civilized  world  increase,  it  becomes  more 
tolerant  in  the  expression  of  opinions  ;  and  as  it  progresses  in  use- 
fulness, it  becomes  more  intellectual.  The  people  have  come  to 
regard  the  press  as  the  great  educator,  not  alone  in  the  department 
of  news,  but  in  all  branches  of  science.  It  has  invaded  the  pulpit, 
the  class-room,  the  bench,  the  bar,  the  laboratory :  wherever 
there  is  information  which  will  benefit  the  masses,  there  will  the 
journalist  be  found,  skipping  like  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower,  and 
extracting  the  sweet  honey  of  knowledge. 

But  it  has  invaded  a  new  field,  hitherto  closed  to  the  surging 
crowd,  unexplored  except  by  the  few,  religiously  guarded,  like  the 
ark  of  the  covenant,  against  the  pollution  which  contact  with  the 
vulgar  might  create,  unapproachable  except  by  the  priests.  It  has 
invaded  the  sacred  groves  where  the  bards  wander  in  mute  and  rapt 
contemplation  of  the  mysteries  of  nature,  the  beauties  of  the  land- 
scape, and  the  awful  splendor  of  the  firmament,  —  it  has  invaded 
the  precincts  of  poetry.  And  for  this  intrusion  it  need  offer  no 
apology,  for  its  purpose  was  praiseworthy  ;  and,  even  if  its  motives 
might  perchance  be  impugned,  it  can  point  to  the  result,  —  the 


26  TEE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

touching  tributes  to  the  illustrious  dead  which  a  brilliant  galaxy  of 
American  poets  spread  over  our  first  page  to-day. 

If  the  public  mind  is  puzzled  over  a  great  constitutional  question  ; 
if  a  sudden  crisis  arises  in  the  affairs  of  government ;  if  the  peo- 
ple are  in  doubt  about  the  advisability  of  taking  a  certain  step,  — 
the  press  steps  in  and  enlightens  them.  The  recognized  statesmen 
of  the  land,  constitutional  and  international  lawyers,  are  inter- 
viewed, or  solicited  to  add  the  weight  of  their  experience  and  the 
fruits  of  their  study  to  the  discussion.  They  are,  by  general  con- 
sent, the  authorized  expounders  of  the  law  ;  and  their  interpretation 
is  accepted,  the  Gordian  knot  is  untied,  the  dispute  peaceably  ad- 
justed, and  the  right  principle  established.  Since  the  death  of  our 
lamented  President,  the  English  language  has  been  taxed  to  its 
utmost  to  furnish  a  suitable  medium  for  expressing  the  sorrow 
which  had  settled  down  over  the  land  like  a  huge  pall.  These 
miles  after  miles  of  crape  which  hung  in  our  busy  streets,  and  which, 
standing  out  in  hard  lines  upon  bare  walls,  testified  to  the  exist- 
ence of  a  feeling  of  bereavement,  —  what  was  their  significance  ? 
What  meant  the  sable  garb  adopted  by  foreign  courts  who  had 
never  seen  or  known  our  dead?  Why  were  the  churches  crowded 
with  sympathetic  mourners  who  sent  up  prayers  to  the  throne  of 
grace  for  a  man  who  differed  from  them  in  religious  belief  and  form 
of  worship  ?  What  meant  the  universal  regrets  of  the  whole  world, 
the  general  mourning  and  sadness  of  the  people,  the  respectful, 
reverential  tone  in  which  they  spoke  of  his  life,  his  sufferings,  and 
his  death  ?  Who  could  analyze  all  this  ?  who  could  formulate  a 
proper  interpretation  of  the  symbolic  features  of  this  terrible  na- 
tional affliction  ?  Who  but  the  poets  ? 

And  so  we  went  to  the  poets,  and  asked  them  individually  ;ui<l 
separately  to  pass  this  great  mass  of  undefined  sentiment  through 
the  crucible  of  song,  and  explain  to  the  people  the  secret  of  their 
sorrow.  They  have  done  so.  The  genial  Dr.  Holmes,  Boston's 
poet-laureate,  gives  expression  in  sweetest  measure  to  the  nation's 
grief  and  the  nation's  hope  ;  while  the  stalwart  O'Reilly,  aglow 
with  Celtic  fire,  pictures  in  burning  verse  the  mystic  meaning  of 
that  terrible  midnight  knell  which  told  the  nation  that  its  chosen' 
President  was  dead.  .Toaquin  Miller,  who  sees  pictures  in  the  ma- 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  27 

jestic  waving  of  the  pines  of  the  Sierras,  and  who  reads  the  voice 
of  Heaven  in  the  thunder  which  shakes  the  peaks  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  tells  the  story  of  Garfield's  life,  and  analyzes  its  sym- 
bolism. And  Rev.  M.  J.  Savage  contributes,  of  his  study  in  the 
paths  of  philosophy  and  theology,  a  clever  poem  full  of  deep  senti- 
ment. Rev.  H.  Bernard  Carpenter  and  Harvard's  latest  accession 
to  the  minstrel  choir  also  join  in  the  general  song,  with  lyres  at- 
tuned to  the  sombre  melody  of  the  season.  But  not  to  men  alone 
must  the  task  be  intrusted.  The  tender  sympathy  which  has  gone 
out  toward  Mrs.  Garfield,  in  her  great  affliction,  from  monarch  anc 
peasant,  from  ruler  and  subject,  from  the  great  mass  of  humanity 
has  a  deep  significance  which  only  woman  can  interpret.  Those 
who  will  read  the  touching  lines  which  rapidly  flowed  from  the 
pens  of  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Mrs.  Marie  E.  Blake,  Mrs.  Louise 
Parsons  Hopkins,  and  Mrs.  Kate  Tannatt  Woods,  will  feel  grate- 
ful that  in  the  broad  republic  of  letters  women's  rights  are  not  an 
issue,  but  an  institution. 

We  have  said  that  " The  Globe"  has  inaugurated  a  new  depart- 
ure in  journalism.    ~We  think  it  will  prove  beneficial  to  the  public 
and  to  the  poets.      The   thin  partition  of    sentiment  which   has 
divided  them  has  been  torn  down,  and  in  the  future  their  relations 
will  be  of  a  more  intimate  and  cordial  nature.     When  any  grea 
emergency  arises  in  the  future,  the  poets  will  be  called  on  to  give 
shape  to  the  feelings  of  the  people  ;   to  embody  in  immortal  verse 
the  sympathies,  the  regrets,  or  the  indignation,  of  the  community 
And  they  will  respond  :  there  is  a  precedent  for  both. 

With  this  explanation  we  present  to  our  readers  the  Garfiek 
Memorial  "Globe,"  which  in  future  years,  when  the  onward  march 
of  journalism  shall  have  carried  it  far  beyond  the  point  reachec 
to-day,  will  remind  another  generation  of  what  its  predecessors 
thought  out  and  executed. 

—  BOSTON  GLOBE,  Sept.  27,  1881 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 


'OEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  BOSTON   GLOBE. 


AFTER   THE  BURIAL. 

BY    OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 
I. 

FALLEN  with  autumn's  falling  leaf, 
Ere  yet  his  summer's  noon  was  past, 

Our  friend,  our  guide,  our  trusted  chief,  — 
What  words  can  match  a  woe  so  vast? 

And  whose  the  chartered  claim  to  speak 
The  sacred  grief  where  all  have  part, 

When  sorrow  saddens  every  cheek, 
And  broods  in  every  aching  heart  ? 

Yet  Nature  prompts  the  burning  phrase 
That  thrills  the  hushed  and  shrouded  hall, 

The  loud  lament,  the  sorrowing  praise, 
The  silent  tear  that  love  lets  fall. 

In  loftiest  verse,  in  lowliest  rhyme, 

Shall  strive  unblamed  the  minstrel  choir,  — 

The  singers  of  the  new-born  time, 

And  trembling  age  with  out- worn  lyre. 

No  room  for  pride,  no  place  for  blame  — 
We  fling  our  blossoms  on  the  grave, 

Pale,  scentless,  faded,  —  all  we  claim, 
This  oaly,  —  what  we  had  we  gave. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  2 

Ah,  could  the  grief  of  all  who  mourn 

Blend  in  one  voice  its  bitter  cry, 
The  wail  to  heaven's  high  arches  borne 

Would  echo  through  the  caverned  sky. 

IT. 

O  happiest  land  whose  peaceful  choice 

Fills  with  a  breath  its  empty  throne  ! 
God,  speaking  through  thy  people's  voice, 

Has  made  that  voice  for  once  his  own. 

No  angry  passion  shakes  the  State 

Whose  weary  servant  seeks  for  rest,  — 

And  who  could  fear  that  scowling  hate 
Would  strike  at  that  unguarded  breast? 

He  stands  ;  unconscious  of  his  doom, 

In  manly  strength,  erect,  serene,  — 
Around  him  summer  spreads  her  bloom  : 

He  falls,  —  what  horror  clothes  the  scene  ! 

How  swift  the  sudden  flash  of  woe 

Where  all  was  bright  as  childhood's  dream ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Had  leaped  the  lightning's  arrowy  gleam. 

Blot  the  foul  deed  from  history's  page,  — 

Let  not  the  all-betraying  sun 
Blush  for  the  day  that  stains  an  age 

When  murder's  blackest  wreath  was  won. 


in. 

Pale  on  his  couch  the  sufferer  lies, 
The  weary  battle-ground  of  pain  ; 

Love  tends  his  pillow,  science  tries 
Her  every  art,  alas  !  in  vain. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GABFIELD. 

The  strife  endures  how  long  !  how  long  ! 

Life,  death,  seem  balanced  in  the  scale  ; 
While  round  his  bed  a  viewless  throng 

Awaits  each  morrow's  changing  tale. 

In  realms  the  desert  ocean  parts, 

What  myriads  watch  with  tear-filled  eyes, 

His  pulse-beats  echoing  in  their  hearts, 
His  breathings  counted  with  their  sighs  ! 

Slowly  the  stores  of  life  are  spent, 
Yet  hope  still  battles  with  despair,  — 

Will  Heaven  not  yield  when  knees  are  bent  ? 
Answer,  O  Thou  that  hearest  prayer ! 

But  silent  is  the  brazen  skj",  — 

On  sweeps  the  meteor's  threatening  train,  - 
Unswerving  Nature's  mute  reply, 

Bound  in  her  adamantine  chain. 

Not  ours  the  verdict  to  decide 

Whom  death  shall  claim  or  skill  shall  save  : 
The  hero's  life  though  Heaven  denied, 

It  gave  our  land  a  martyr's  grave. 

Nor  count  the  teaching  vainly  sent 

How  human  hearts  their  griefs  may  share,  - 

The  lesson  woman's  love  has  lent 

What  hope  may  do,  what  faith  can  bear  ! 

Farewell !  the  leaf-strown  earth  enfolds 
Our  stay,  our  pride,  our  hopes,  our  fears ; 

And  autumn's  golden  sun  beholds 
A  nation  bowed,  a  world  in  tears. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  31 

REJOICE. 

BY   JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

'Bear  me  out  of  tJie  battle,  for  lo!  I  am  sorely  wounded." 

I. 

FROM  out  my  deep,  wide-bosomed  West, 

Where  unnamed  heroes  hew  the  way 
For  worlds  to  follow,  with  stern  zest,  — 

Where  gnarled  old  maples  make  array, 
Deep-scarred  from  red  men  gone  to  rest,  — 

Where  pipes  the  quail,  where  squirrels  play 
Through  tossing  trees,  with  nuts  for  toy, 

A  boy  steps  forth,  clear-eyed  and  tall, 
A  bashful  boy,  a  soulful  boy, 

Yet  comely  as  the  sons  of  Saul,  — 
A  boy,  all  friendless,  poor,  unknown, 
Yet  heir-apparent  to  a  throne. 


n. 

Lo  !  Freedom's  bleeding  sacrifice  ! 

So  like  some  tall  oak  tempest-blown 
Beside  the  storied  stream  he  lies 

Now  at  the  last,  pale-browed  and  prone. 
A  nation  kneels  with  streaming  eyes, 

A  nation  supplicates  the  throne, 
A  nation  holds  him  by  the  hand, 

A  nation  sobs  aloud  at  this  : 
The  only  dry  eyes  in  the  land 

Now  at  the  last,  I  think,  are  his. 

Why,  we  should  pray,  God  knoweth  best, 
That  this  grand,  patient  soul  should  rest. 


32  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAliFIELD. 

III. 

The  world  is  round.     The  wheel  has  run 

Full  circle.     Now  behold  a  grave 
Beneath  the  old  loved  trees  is  done. 

The  druid  oaks  lift  up,  and  wave 
A  solemn  welcome  back.     The  brave 

Old  maples  murmur,  every  one, 
"  Receive  him,  Earth  !  "     In  centre  land, 

As  in  the  centre  of  each  heart, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 

The  coffin  sinks.     And  with  it  part 

All  party  hates  !     Now,  not  in  vain 
He  bore  his  peril  and  hard  pain. 


IV. 

Therefore,  I  say,  rejoice !     I  say, 

The  lesson  of  his  life  was  much,  — 
This  boy  that  won,  as  in  a  day, 

The  world's  heart  utterly ;  a  touch 
Of  tenderness  and  tears  :  the  page 

Of  history  grows  rich  from  such  ; 
His  name  the  nation's  heritage,  — 

But  oh !  as  some  sweet  angel's  voice 
Spake  this  brave  death  that  touched  us  all. 

Therefore,  I  say,  Rejoice  !  Rejoice  ! 

Run  high  the  flags  !     Put  by  the  pall ! 
Lo  !  all  is  for  the  best  for  all ! 


TUE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  33 

SONNET  — JAMES   A.    GARFIELD. 

BY   REV.    H.    BERXARD    CARPENTER. 

Lo  !  as  a  pure,  white  statue  wrought  with  care 

By  some  strong  hand,  which  moulds  from  Life  and  Death 

Beauty  more  beautiful  than  blood  or  breath, 
And  straight  'tis  veiled  ;  and,  whilst  all  men  repair 
To  sec  this  wonder  in  the  workshop,  there  ! 

Behold,  it  gleams  unveiled  to  curious  eye 

Far-seen,  high-placed  in  Art's  pale  gallery, 
Where  all  stand  mute  before  a  work  so  fair  : 
So  he,  our  man  of  men,  in  vision  stands, 

With  Pain  and  Patience  crowned  imperial ; 

Death's  veil  has  dropped  ;  far  from  this  house  of  woe 
He  hears  one  love-chant  out  of  many  lands, 

Whilst  from  his  mystic  noon-height  he  lets  fall 

His  shadow  o'er  these  hearts  that  bleed  below. 
SEPT.  2G,  1881. 


MIDNIGHT. 

SEPTEMBER  10,   1881. 
BY   JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY. 

OXCE  in  a  lifetime  we  may  see  the  veil 

Tremble  and  lift,  that  hides  symbolic  things  : 

The  spirit's  vision,  when  the  senses  fail, 

Sweeps  the  weird  meaning  that  the  outlook  brings. 

Deep  in  the  midst  of  turmoil,  it  may  be,  — 
A  crowded  street,  a  forum,  or  a  field,  — 

The  soul  inverts  the  telescope,  to  see 
To-day's  event  in  future  years  revealed. 


84  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 

Back  from  the  present,  let  us  look  at  Rome  : 

Now,  see  what  Cato  meant,  what  Brutus  said. 
Hark  !  the  Athenians  welcome  Cimon  home ! 

—  How  clear  they  are,  those  glimpses  of  the  dead ! 

But  we,  hard  toilers,  we  who  plan  and  weave 
Through  common  days  the  web  of  common  life, 

What  word,  alas  !  shall  teach  us  to  receive 
The  mystic  meaning  of  our  peace  and  strife? 

Whence  comes  our  symbol  ?     Surely  God  must  speak  ; 

No  less  than  he  can  make  us  heed  or  pause : 
Self-seekers  we,  too  busy  or  too  weak 

To  search  beyond  our  daily  lives  and  laws. 

'Gainst  things  occult  our  earth-turned  eyes  rebel : 
No  sound  of  Destiny  can  reach  our  ears  ; 

We  have  no  time  for  dreaming  —     Hark  !  a  knell ,  — 
A  knell  at  midnight !     All  the  nation  hears  I 

A  second  grievous  throb  !     The  dreamers  wake  ; 

The  merchant's  soul  forgets  his  goods  and  ships  : 
The  humble  workmen  from  their  slumbers  break  ; 

The  women  raise  their  eyes  with  quivering  lips  ; 

The  miner  rests  upon  his  pick  to  hear ; 

The  printer's  type  stops  midway  from  the  case  ; 
The  solemn  sound  has  reached  the  roisterer's  ear, 

And  brought  the  shame  and  sorrow  to  his  face. 

Again  it  booms  !     Oh,  mystic  veil,  upraise  ! 

—  Behold,  'tis  lifted  !     On  the  darkness  drawn, 
A  picture,  lined  with  light !     The  people's  gaze, 

From  sea  to  sea,  beholds  it  till  the  dawn  : 

A  death-bed  scene,  — a  sinking  sufferer  lies. 

Their  chosen  ruler,  crowned  with  love  and  pride ; 
Around,  his  counsellors,  with  streaming  eyes  ; 

His  wife  heart-broken,  kneeling  bj7  his  side  : 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  35 

Death's  shadow  holds  her  ;  it  will  pass  too  soou  ; 

She  weeps  in  silence  —  bitterest  of  tears  ; 
He  wanders  softly  —  Nature's  kindest  boon, 

And  as  he  whispers  all  the  country  hears. 

For  him  the  pain  is  past,  the  struggle  ends  : 
His  cares  and  honors  fade  :  his  younger  life 

In  peaceful  Mentor  comes,  with  dear  old  friends  ; 
His  mother's  arms  take  home  his  sweet  young  wife  ; 

He  stands  among  the  students,  tall  and  strong, 

And  teaches  truths  republican  and  grand  : 
He  moves  —  ah,  pitiful!  —  he  sweeps  along. 

O'er  fields  of  carnage  leading  his  command  ! 

He  speaks  to  crowded  faces  ;  round  him  surge 

Thousands  and  millions  of  excited  men  : 
He  hears  them  cheer,  sees  some  great  light  emerge, 

Is  borne  as  on  a  tempest :  then  —  ah,  then  ! 

The  fancies  fade,  the  fever's  work  is  past ; 

A  moment's  pang  —  then  recollections  thrill : 
He  feels  the  faithful  lips  that  kiss  their  last. 

His  heart  beats  once  in  answer,  and  is  still ! 

The  curtain  falls  ;  but  hushed,  as  if  afraid, 

The  people  wait,  tear-stained,  with  heaving  breast ; 

'Twill  rise  again,  they  know,  when  he  is  laid 
With  Freedom,  in  the  Capitol,  at  rest. 

Once  more  they  see  him,  in  his  coffin,  there, 
As  Lincoln  lay  in  blood-stained  martyr  sleep  ; 

The  stars  and  stripes  across  his  honored  bier. 
\Vhile  Freedom  and  Columbia  o'er  him  weep. 


36  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAB  FIELD. 

"HE  IS  DEAD,  OUR  PRESIDENT." 

BY   CHARLES     TURXEU    DAZEY. 
[THE  HARVARD  CLASS  POET  OF  1331.] 

HE  is  dead,  our  President ;  he  rests  in  an  honored  grave, 

He  whom  any  one  of  us  would  gladly  have  died  to  save. 

All  is  over  at  last,  the  long,  brave  struggle  for  life,  — 

For  a  nation's  sake,  not  his  own,  and  for  that  of  children  and 

wife. 

Doubt  and  suspense  are  dead ;  dead  is  the  passionate  thrill 
Of  a  hope  too  blessed  and  sweet  for  aught  but  death  to  kill. 
Do  you  remember  yet,  how,  from  that  awful  day 
When  the   pulse   of  the   nation   stopped  with   a   shock   of  wild 

dismay, 

And  voiceless  horror  looked  from  questioning  eyes  to  eyes, 
As  the  murmur  widened  and  spread,  ' '  Our  President  murdered 

lies,"- 

How  to  the  very  last,  like  a  star  in  a  night  of  gloom, 
The  hope  of  the  people  burned  till  it  sank  in  a  hero's  tomb? 
We  could  not  give  him  up :  as  a  mother  prays  for  her  child, 
We  prayed  for  his  precious  life,  with  a  love  as  deep  and  wild. 
We  had  known  him  long  and  well  as  a  man  of  royal  mind, 
Who  had  nobly  proved  his  birthright  as  a  leader  of  mankind. 
We  had  watched  him,  oh,  so  proudly  !  as  in  life's  ranks  he  rose 
By  the  fair  and  open  warfare  that  endeared  him  to  his  foes  : 
But  we  never  prized  him  rightly  until  he  had  meekly  lain 
Wrapped  in  speechless  tortures  of  the  fiery  furnace  of  pain. 
Then  how  we  learned  to  love  him  !  for  all  that  man  holds  dear, 
For  infinite  faith  and  patience,  and  courage  when  death  drew  near, 
For  yearning  love  that  strove  with  a  pitiful,  mighty  strife, 
To  shield  from  the  sting  of  sorrow  the  hearts  of  mother  and  wife. 
Then  with  tearful  vision,  purged  of  passion  and  pride, 
We  saw  in  its  tender  beauty  that  spirit  glorified  ; 
And  mighty  love  swept  o'er  us  with  a  current  as  deep  and  grand 
As  the  Nile  that  swells  to  a  sea  to  nourish  a  hungry  land. 


THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES    TO   GAB  FIELD.  37 

0  boundless  sea  of  love,  and  star  of  a  hope  that  is  dead, 

Not  vainly  our  President  died,  not  vainly  our  loved  one  bled, 

If  still  that  sea  shall  sweep  onward  which  at  first  so  narrow  ran 

Till  the  hands  of  the  nations  clasp  in  the  brotherhood  of  man, 

Till  the  hate  that  smoulders  still  in  hearts  unreconciled 

Shall  change  to  the  sweet  affection  that  beams  in  the  glance  of  a 

child, 
And   gladness   shall   dawn   from   sorrow,  and   glory   burst   from 

gloom. 
And   the  flower  of   love  fraternal   shall  blossom  from  Garfield's 

tomb. 
CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  Sept.  25,  1881. 


J.    A.    G. 

BY   JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

OUR  sorrow  sends  its  shadow  round  the  earth. 
So  brave,  so  true  !     A  hero  from  his  birth  ! 
The  plumes  of  Empire  moult,  in  mourning  draped, 
The  lightning's  message  by  our  tears  is  shaped. 

Life's  vanities  that  blossom  for  an  hour 
Heap  on  his  funeral  car  their  fleeting  flower. 
Commerce  forsakes  her  temples,  blind  and  dim, 
And  pours  her  tardy  gold,  to  homage  him. 

The  notes  of  grief  to  age  familiar  grow 
Before  the  sad  privations  all  must  know ; 
But  the  majestic  cadence  which  we  hear 
To-day,  is  new  in  cither  hemisphere. 

What  crown  is  this,  high  hung  and  hard  to  reach, 
Whose  glory  so  outshines  our  laboring  speech? 
The  crown  of  Honor,  pure  and  unbetrayed  ; 
He  wins  the  spurs  who  bears  the  knightly  aid. 


38  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIEL1). 

AVhile  royal  babes  incipient  empire  hold, 

And,  for  bare  promise,  grasp  the  sceptre's  gold, 

This  man  such  service  to  his  age  did  bring 

That  they  who  knew  him  servant,  hailed  him  king. 

In  poverty  his  infant  couch  was  spread  ; 
His  tender  hands  soon  wrought  for  daily  bread  ; 
But  from  the  cradle's  bound  his  willing  feet 
The  errand  of  the  moment  went  to  meet. 

When  learning's  page  unfolded  to  his  view, 
The  quick  disciple  straight  a  teacher  grew  ; 
And,  when  the  fight  of  freedom  stirred  the  land, 
Armed  was  his  heart  and  resolute  his  hand. 

Wise  in  the  council,  stalwart  in  the  field  ! 
Such  rank  supreme  a  workman's  hut  may  yield. 
His  onward  steps  like  measured  marbles  show, 
Climbing  the  height  where  Giod's  great  flame  doth  glow. 

Ah  !  Rose  of  joy,  that  hid'st  a  thorn  so  sharp ! 
Ah  !  Golden  woof  that  meet'st  a  severed  warp  ! 
Ah  !  Solemn  comfort  that  the  stars  rain  down  ! 
The  hero's  garland  his,  the  martyr's  crown ! 
NEWPORT,  Sept.  25,  1881. 


FATHERLESS. 

BY    KATE    TANNATT    WOODS. 

OVER  the  land  the  tidings  sped, 

"  The  leader  has  fallen,  our  chief  is  dead  ; 

And  over  the  land  a  cry  of  pain 

Began  and  ended  with  Garfield's  name. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  39 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  each,  with  tearful  eye  : 
"  So  strong,  so  true,  why  must  he  die?  " 
And  the  children  paused  that  autunm  day 
To  talk  of  the  good  man  passed  away. 

Over  the  land,  when  the  tidings  came, 
Even  the  babies  lisped  his  name  ; 
And  youthful  eyes  grew  sad  that  day 
For  the  fatherless  children  far  away. 

Fatherless.  —  word  with  a  life  of  pain  ; 
Fatherless.  —  never  complete  again  ; 
Always  to  miss,  and  never  to  know, 
The  joy  of  his  greeting,  —  his  love  below. 

Missing  the  cheerful  smile  each  day, 
Missing  his  care  in  studies  or  play, 
Missing  eachjiour,  each  day,  each  year, 
The  sound  of  a  voice  so  tender  and  dear. 

Fatherless  !  only  the  children  can  tell 
The  sound  of  that  dreary  funeral  knell ; 
For  only  they,  in  all  coming  years, 
Find  the  roses  of  youth  bedewed  with  tears. 

Over  the  land,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  prayer  of  the  children  is  echoed  o'er,  — 
••  (iod  of  the  fatherless,  help,  we  pray, 
The  wards  of  our  mourning  nation  to-day." 
SAI,EM,  Sept.  24,  1881. 


40  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAHFIELD. 

LAUREL  —  CYPRESS. 

BY    LOUISA    PARSONS    IIOPKIXS. 

[AUTHOR  OF  " : 


MARCU  4,  1881. 

HE  stands  at  the  Capitol's  portal 

With  lifted  hand. 
The  vows  of  God  are  upon  him 

For  the  trust  of  the  laud  ; 
i  Chief  true  and  grand  ! 

His  manhood  turns  in  its  glory 

To  womanhood. 
To  his  wife  and  mother  he  yearns 

From  the  multitude ; 

Heart  true  and  good  ! 

He  crowns  them  before  the  people 

With  kiss  of  love. 
See  it,  ye  men,  and  shout,  — 

Full  hearts  will  out ; 

Rend  the  heavens  above ! 

SEPTEMBER  23,  1881. 

He  lies  in  the  wide  rotunda. 

With  folded  palms  ; 
"  Wounded  for  our  transgressions." 

Comrades  in  arms, 

Spread  ye  his  pall, 

For  the  peace  of  all ! 

The  thronging  crowds  have  passed  him, 

With  falling  tear ; 
A  queenly  woman's  garland 

Upon  his  bier ; 

Knight  without  fear, 

Man  brave  and  dear  ! 


THE   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAHFIELD.  41 

In  this  his  martyr-glory 

Leave  him  alone ; 
For  his  kiss-crowned  wife  is  coming. 

Though  dead,  he  has  known 

She  would  come  —  his  own  — 

To  share  his  throne. 

NEW  BEDFORD,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


THE   LAST  BULLETIN. 

BY    MARIE    E.    BLAKE. 

DAY  after  day  as  morning  skies  did  flame, 

"  How  fares  our  liege?  "  we  cried  with  eager  breath,  — 

O  C?  ' 

"  How  fares  our  liege,  who  fights  the  fight  with  death?  " 
And  ever  with  fresh  hope  the  answer  came  ; 

Until  that  solemn  midnight  when  the  clang 
Of  woeful  bells  tolled  out  their  tale  of  dread, 
That  he,  the  good  and  gifted  one,  was  dead, 

And  through  his  weeping  land  the  message  rang. 

Then  in  the  darkness  every  heart  was  bowed  : 
While  thinking  on  the  direful  ways  of  Fate, 
Where  Love  could  thus  be  overthrown  by  Hate,  — 

"  So  wrong  hath  conquered  right !  "  we  said  aloud. 

"  If  this  be  life,  what  matter  how  it  flies  ; 

What  strength  or  power  or  glory  crowns  a  name  ; 

What  noble  meed  of  honesty  or  fame, 
Since  all  these  gifts  were  his,  —  and  there  he  lies 

Blighted  by  malice  !  Woe's  the  day  !  and  dead 
While  yet  the  fields  of  his  most  golden  prime 
Are  rich  in  all  the  pomp  of  summer-time, 

With  all  their  ripening  wealth  imharvested  !" 


42  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   G  All  FIELD. 


Thus  fares  it  with  our  liege  ?     Nay,  doubting  soul, 
Xot  thus  ;  but  grandly  raised  to  nobler  height 
Of  strength  and  power  and  most  divine  delight, 

—  At  one  swift  breath  made  beautiful  and  whole  ! 

Nor  mocked  by  broken  hope,  or  shattered  plan. 
By  some  pale  ghost  of  duty  left  undone, 
By  haunting  moments  wasted  one  by  one, 

But  crowned  with  that  which  best  becometh  man. 

Holding  with  brimming  hands  his  heart's  desire  ; 
While  the  fierce  light  of  these  last  glorious  days, 
Blazing  on  each  white  line  of  thought  and  ways, 

Touches  his  record  with  immortal  fire  ! 

BOSTON,  Sept.  25, 1881. 


J.  A.  G. 

UUMANITAS  REGXANS. 
BY    M.  J.   SAVAGE. 

WITH  finger  on  lip,  and  breath  bated, 
With  an  eager  and  sad  desire, 

The  world  stood  hushed,  as  it  waited 
For  the  click  of  the  fateful  wire. 

' '  Better : ' '  and  civilization 

Breathed  freer  and  hoped  again. 

"  Worse:  "  and  through  every  nation 
Went  throbbing  a  tin-ill  of  pain. 

A  cry  at  midnight !  and  listening  — 
'•'•Dead! "  tolled  out  the  bells  of  despair ; 
And  millions  of  eyelids  were  glistening 
As  sobbed  the  sad  tones  on  the  air. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTE  $    TO    GARFIELD.  43 

But  who  is  he  toward  whom  all  eyes  are  turning? 
And  who  is  he  for  whom  all  hearts  are  yearning? 

What  is  the  threat  at  which  earth  holds  its  breath 
While  one  lone  man  a  duel  fights  with  death? 


No  thrones  are  hanging  in  suspense  ; 

No  kingdoms  totter  to  their  fall. 
Peace,  with  her  gentle  influence, 

Is  hovering  over  all. 

'Tis  just  one  man  at  Elberon, 

Who  waiteth  day  by  day, 
Whose  patience  all  our  hearts  hath  won 

As  ebbs  his  life  away. 

His  birthday  waked  no  cannon-boom  ; 

No  purple  round  him  hung  : 
A  backwoods  cabin  gave  him  room  ; 

And  storms  his  welcome  sung. 

He  seized  the  sceptre  of  that  king 
Who  treads  a  freehold  sod  : 

He  wore  upon  his  brow  that  ring 
That  crowns  A  son  of  God. 

By  his  own  might  he  built  a  throne, 

With  no  unhuman  arts, 
And  by  his  manhood  reigned  alone 

O'er  fifty  million  hearts. 

Thus  is  humanity's  long  dream. 

Its  highest,  holiest  hope,  begun 
To  harden  into  fact,  and  gleam 

A  city  'neath  the  sun.  — 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIEIT). 

A  city,  not  like  that  which  came 
In  old-time  vision  from  the  skies  ; 

But  wrought  by  man  through  blood  and  flame, 
From  solid  earth  to  rise,  — 

Man's  city  ;  the  ideal  reign 

Where  every  human  right  hath  place ; 
"Where  blood,  nor  birth,  nor  priest  again 

Shall  bind  the  weary  race,  — 

In  which  no  king  but  man  shall  be. 

'Twas  this  that  thrilled  with  loving  pain 
The  heart  of  all  the  earth,  as  he 

Died  by  the  sobbing  main. 

For,  mightiest  ruler  of  the  earth, 
He  was  the  mightiest,  not  because 

Of  priestly  touch,  or  blood,  or  birth, 
But  by  a  people's  laws. 


O  Garfield !  brave  and  patient  soul ! 
Long  as  the  tireless  tides  shall  roll 
About  the  Long  Branch  beaches,  where 
Thy  life  went  out  upon  the  air, 
So  long  thy  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Will  hold  thy  manhood's  legacy. 

There  were  two  parties  :  there  were  those, 
In  thine  own  party,  called  thy  foes  ; 
There  was  a  North  ;  there  was  a  South, 
Ere  blazed  the  assassin's  pistol- mouth. 

But  lo  !  thy  bed  became  a  throne  ; 

And,  as  the  hours  went  by,  at  length 
The  weakness  of  thine  arm  alone 

Grew  mightier  than  thy  strongest  strength. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  46 

No  petulant  murmur  ;  no  vexed  cry 
Of  balked  ambitions  ;  but  a  high, 
Grand  patience  !     And  thy  whisper  blent 
In  one  heart  all  the  continent. 
To-day  there  are  no  factious  left, 
But  one  America  bereft. 


O  Garfield  !  fortunate  in  death  wast  thou, 
Though  at  the  opening  of  a  grand  career ! 

Thou  wast  a  meteor  flashing  on  the  brow 
Of  skies  political,  where  oft  appear, 

And  disappear,  so  many  stars  of  promise.     Then, 
While  all  men  watched  thy  high  course,  wondering 

If  thou  wouldst  upward  sweep,  or  fall  again, 

Thee  from  thine  orbit  mad  hands  thought  to  fling ; 

And  lo  !  the  meteor,  with  its  litful  light, 
All  on  a  sudden  stood,  and  was  a  star,  — 

A  radiance  fixed,  to  glorify  the  night 

There  where  the  world's  proud  constellations  are. 


JAMES    ABRAM    GARFIELD. 

BY    FRANCIS    A.    NICHOLS. 

O  GOLDEN-ROD  upon  the  hill ! 

0  white-lipped  lily  of  the  lake  ! 
No  longer  bloom  to  half  fulfil 

A  promise  made  for  promise'  sake  ! 
Let  brambles  grow,  let  thistles  blow  : 
What  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 


46  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    T<>    CAItriELD. 

O  waving  fields  of  ripening  grain  ! 

O  fruitage  of  the  vine  and  tree  ! 
Nor  kissing  sun  nor  soothing  rain 

Again  shall  wake  maturity. 
No  seed  may  grow  ;  no  man  may  sow. 
What  careth  he?     He  cannot  know. 

O  breast  of  woman  !   bearing  pain 
To  round  the  fulness  of  thy  life  : 

No  first  low  cry  of  babe  again 

Shall  meet  the  ear  of  prayerful  wife. 

No  mother's  love  ;  no  mother's  woe. 

What  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 

O  sun  !  O  moon  !  O  stars  !  O  day  ! 

Forever  vanished  from  our  sight ! 
Nor  love  nor  faith  may  find  a  i-a\ 

For  guidance  from  eternal  night : 
The  light  may  come  ;  the  light  may  go. 
AVhat  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 

O  grave  !   beneath  some  clouded  sky, 
Low-lurking  near  his  hallowed  head, 

Henceforth,  nor  mourning  robe  nor  sigh 
Shall  know  the  living  from  the  dead. 

What  though  our  hearts  shall  fill  and  flow? 

What  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 

O  harp  attuned  to  holy  things  ! 

Forbear,  in  grief,  to  lose  the  strain.  — 
The  grand  old  strain  the  prophet  sings.  — 

"  The  dead  shall  rise  to  life  again  !  " 
Thus  life  will  come  ;  thus  life  will  go. 
'Tis  well !  for  God  hath  ordered  so. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  47 

i 

"'TIS   O'ER   AT   LAST." 

BY  JOSEPH  W.  KYE. 

'Tis  o'er  at  last  —  the  doubtful  strife, 
We  watched  so  long  in  hope  and  fear. 

The  die  is  cast !     AVith  sadness  rife 
We  gather  at  our  ruler's  bier. 

The  starry  flag  o'er  all  the  land 

The  story  sad  at  half-mast  tells  ; 
Sounds  solemnly  on  every  hand 

The  mournful  requiem  of  bells. 

No  faction  breaks  the  grief  wide-spread  ; 

Xo  State  or  section  stands  apart : 
All  join  in  mourning  for  him  dead  ; 

He  finds  a  place  in  every  heart. 

The  thrilling  words  he  often  spake, 

With  eloquence  almost  divine, 
All  patriotic  hearts  awake, 

From  the  Palmetto  to  the  Pine  ! 

AVhat  though  our  prayers  did  not  avail, 
The  suffering,  prostrate  form  to  raise  ? 

Our  trust  in  God  will  never  fail. 

We  cannot  cease  his  name  to  praise. 

"  God  reigns  !  "     His  purpose  underlies 

The  weak  designs  of  finite  man  ; 
The  plots  which  scheming  men  devisf 

Can  never  thwart  his  wondrous  plan. 

He  ever  makes  man's  wrath  to  praise 

His  overruling  power  and  love, 
Thus  bringing  men  to  know  his  ways, 

And  drawing  them  to  heaven  above. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

COLUMBIA  weeps  not  alone  ; 

The  world  partakes  the  heavy  woe  : 
From  cot  to  cot,  from  throne  to  throne, 

Ths  streams  of  grief  and  sorrow  flow. 

Lo,  England's  Queen  (God  bless  her!)  sends 

Her  tribute  of  esteem  sincere, 
Which  with  a  thousand  offerings  blends 

To  crown  the  martyr's  hallowed  bier ! 

The  generations  yet  unborn 

"Will  oft  the  tearful  story  tell, 
How,  on  that  fated  summer  morn, 

The  noble  form  of  GARFIELD  fell ! 

Patient  and  calm  through  trials  long 
Of  weariness  and  ceaseless  pain, 

The  victim  of  a  deed  of  wrong 
To  be  repeated  ne'er  again  ! 

Against  the  hand  that  laid  him  low, 

We  heard  from  him  nor  wrath  nor  hate, 

But  million  hearts  impatient  grow 
To  mete  the  murderer  his  fate  ! 

What  are  the  bays  which  warriors  crown  ? 

The  spurs  of  gold  by  knighthood  won  ? 
His  were  the  honor  and  renown 

Of  manhood  true  and  duty  done. 

Our  noble  leader,  living  still, 

Is  "  marching  on  "  to  duties  new, 

His  noble  mission  to  fulfil 

The  spirit's  subtile  influence  through ! 

Rest,  patriot,  in  thy  narrow  bed, 

While  flowers  we  culled  bedeck  thy  mound  : 
A  brighter  crown  adorns  thy  head. 

Where  joys  supernal  e'er  abound. 
LYNN,  MASS. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  49 


POEMS   WRITTEN    FOR    OTHER    PAPERS. 


ELBERON. 

BY  J.   W.   TURNER. 

[From  The  East  Boston  Advocate.] 
I. 

'TWAS  eventide:  the  stars  were  beaming  from  on  high, 

The  balmy  breeze  of  autumn  gently  floated  by, 

As  at  my  casement  gazing  out  upon 

The  world,  my  thoughts  were  still  at  Elberon. 

n. 

List!  dost  tlum  hear  that  sound  —  that  mournful  knell  ? 
Those  tones  that  vibrate  over  hill  and  dell  ? 
From  east  to  west  upon  this  midnight  calm, 
From  north  to  south  —  oh,  hear  the  sad  alarm! 

in. 

Ah,  yes!  a  nation's  tears  too  plainly  tell 

Too  well,  alas!  to  us,  what  has  befell, 

And  hope,  once  cherished  in  our  hearts,  has  fled,  — 

Our  President,  our  noble  Garfield's  dead! 

IV. 

O  sad  Columbia!  stricken  land,  for  thee 
This  hour  of  solemn  grief's  dark  destiny! 
The  tidings  now  so  fraught  with  gloom  and  pain 
That's  lingering  o'er  thy  great  and  wide  domain. 


O  God!  we  turn  our  inmost  thoughts  above, 
Invoke  thy  aid,  —  thy  ever  tender  love ; 
For  by  thy  will,  thy  might,  and  thy  command, 
Is  life,  is  love,  is  home  and  native  land. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD. 

VI. 

O  wife  bereft!  O  aged  mother  dear ! 
O  darling  children  in  affliction  drear! 
A  nation  bears  her  sympathy  to  thee, 
This  hour  of  death,  —  of  death's  great  mystery. 

vn. 

Oh!  teach  the  ones,  those  men  who  high  in  state, 
All  noble  deeds  of  good  to  emulate, 
And  stay  the  bold  and  base  assassin's  way, 
Whose  hand  uplifted  would  a  mortal  slay. 

vm. 

O  thou  lamented,  loved  of  all  thy  race! 
From  boy  to  man  thy  nobleness  we  trace  : 
All  hearts  are  beating  sadly,  tenderly  ; 
A  nation's  tears  are  falling  now  for  thee. 

IX. 

Too  soon,  alas!  the  portals  of  the  grave 
Will  ope  for  thee,  thou  noble,  good,  and  brave; 
But  yet  around  thee  in  that  sacred  shrine, 
Oh!  millions  will  their  purest  love  intwine; 
EAST  BOSTON,  September,  1881. 


EEST,  NOBLE  CHIEF. 

BY  C.    D.    BRADLEE. 

[From  The  Boston  Advertiser.] 
EEST,  noble  chief,  and  sweetly  rest : 
Thy  work  is  done,  God's  will  is  best. 
A  faithful  life  is  finished  now: 
The  seal  of  death  is  on  thy  brow. 

Rise,  noble  chief,  rise  up  to  heaven : 
Another  life  our  God  has  given ; 
And  angel  robes  are  thine  by  right, 
And  all  thy  days  shall  now  be  bright. 

Take  now  thy  crown,  beloved  of  all, 
And  hear  our  God's  approving  call; 
Whilst  we  on  earth  bow  low,  and  weep, 
And  sad  and  lonely  vigils  keep. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  51 

A  TOUCHING  SONNET. 

BY  EEIC  S.   ROBERTSON. 
[From  The  Kew  York  Herald.] 

The  following  sonnet  was  written  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  London,  after  the  funeral  an. 
them  for  President  Garfield  had  been  sung :  — 

September  25. 
THROUGH  tears  to  look  upon  a  tearful  crowd, 

And  hear  the  anthem  echoing 

High  in  the  dome  till  angels  seem  to  fling 
The  chant  of  England  up  through  vault  and  cloud, 
Making  ethereal  register  aloud 

At  Heaven's  own  gate.     It  was  a  sorrowing 

To  make  a  good  man's  death  seem  such  a  thing 
As  makes  imperial  purple  of  his  shroud. 

Some  creeds  there  be  like  runes  we  cannot  spell, 
And  some  like  stars  that  flicker  in  their  flame; 

But  some  so  clear  the  sun  scarce  shines  so  well ; 
For  when  wjth  Moses'  touch  a  dead  man's  name 

Finds  tears  within  strange  rocks  as  this  name  can, 

We  know  right  well  that  God  was  with  the  man. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  OF  A  NATION. 

BY  CHARLOTTE   FISKE  BATES. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 
THIRTY-EIGHT!  counted  the  solemn  stroke 
In  as  many  a  solemn  minute! 
At  the  second  or  third  the  hardiest  folk 
The  spell  of  their  midnight  revel  broke; 
The  hum  of  pleasure,  the  groan  of  care, 
Sank  to  a  hushed  grief  everywhere,  — 
And  the  still  heaven  had  anguish  in  it! 

O  States !  whatever  ye  were  before, 

Be  one  for  an  endless  morrow ! 

Thirty  and  eight !  from  the  very  core 

Of  the  nation's  soul  doth  her  grief  outpour, 

In  this  deep  of  Death's  and  Nature's  dark. 

One  anguish  in  thirty-eight  breathings,  hark! 

All  one,  all  one,  in  the  orphan's  sorrow. 


52  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GABFIELD. 


AN  ODE  ON  THE  ASSASSINATION. 

[A  prize  offered  by  a  London  weekly  for  the  best  poem  on  the  attempted  assassination  of 
President  Garfleld  was  awarded  to  the  author  of  the  following.] 

VEIL  now,  O  Liberty !  thy  blushing  face, 
At  the  fell  deed  that  thrills  a  startled  world; 

While  fair  Columbia  weeps  in  dire  disgrace, 
And  bows  in  sorrow  o'er  the  banner  furled. 

No  graceless  tyrant  falls  by  vengeance  here. 

'Neath  the  wild  justice  of  a  secret  knife; 
No  red  Ambition  ends  its  grim  career, 

And  expiates  its  horrors  with  its  life. 

Not  here  does  rash  Revenge  misguided  burn, 

To  free  a  nation  with  the  assassin's  dart; 
Or  roused  Despair  in  angry  madness  turn, 

And  tear  its  freedom  from  a  despot's  heart. 

But  where  blest  Liberty  so  widely  reigns, 
And  Peace  and  Plenty  mark  a  smiling  land, 

Here  the  mad  wretch  its  fair  white  record  stains 
And  blurs  its  beauties  with  a  "  bloody  hand." 

Here  the  elect  of  millions,  and  the  pride 
Of  those  who  own  his  mild  and  peaceful  rule,  — 

Here  virtue  sinks  and  yields  the  crimson  tide, 
Beneath  the  vile  unreason  of  a  fool ! 


THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT. 

BY  J.   G.   HOLLAND. 

A  WASP  flew  out  upon  our  fairest  son, 

And  stung  him  to  the  quick  with  poisoned  shaft, 

The  while  he  chatted  carelessly,  and  laughed, 

And  knew  not  of  the  fateful  mischief  done. 

And  so  this  life  amid  our  love  begun, 

Envenomed  by  the  insect's  hellish  craft, 

Was  drunk  by  Death  in  one  long  feverish  draught, 

And  he  was  lost,  —  our  precious,  priceless  one. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  53 

Oh,  mystery  of  blind,  remorseless  fate ! 

Oh,  cruel  end  of  a  most  causeless  hate, 

That  life  so  mean  should  murder  fife  so  great ! 

What  is  there  left  to  us  who  think  and  feel, 

Who  have  no  remedy  and  no  appeal, 

But  damn  the  wasp,  and  crush  him  under  heel  ? 


IX  PACE  EEQUIESCAT. 

[From  Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated  Newspaper.] 

I. 

HUSH,  hush!  speak  softly! 
The  conflict  now  has  reached  the  end : 

Life  lies  vanquished  on  the  ground ; 

Death  with  victor's  wreath  is  crowned. 
O  angels,  stoop!  O  God,  defend! 

II. 

Toll,  toll,  toll,  toll, 
Ye  brazen  bells  of  woe  and  dread ! 
Thy  requiem  send  throughout  all  lands, 
Sweep  on  to  distant  ocean  strands: 
He  lieth  silent,  —  lieth  dead. 

in. 

Gather,  gather,  clouds, 
O  darkest  clouds  of  sombre  night  1 
Lock  the  golden,  smiling  stars 
Safe  behind  thy  prison-bars : 
Grief  wisheth  not,  nor  beareth  light. 

IV. 

Droop,  droop,  Freedom's  flag! 
Float  not  thy  folds  majestic,  proud; 

Lie  thou  still  across  the  breast 

Of  him  the  country  loveth  best : 
It  is  a  well-befitf  ing  shroud. 

v. 

Yet,  O  Columbia!  free,  — 
Up  from  the  past  there  rings  the  cry: 
"God  reigns  —  the  Government  still  lives!" 
In  the  nation's  heart,  that  honor  gives, 
He  "only  sleeps,"  he  cannot  die. 


54  THE  POETS'   TEIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD. 

SEPTEMBER  NINETEENTH. 

• 

BY  L.  M.  S. 
[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 

TOLL!  toll!  ye  solemn  midnight  bells! 
From  spire  to  spire  the  thrilling  echo  swells; 
And  to  our  hearts  the  mournful  story  tells,  — 
Gone  1    Gone !    Gone ! 

Millions  of  watchers  list  with  bated  breath 
To  iron  tongues  that  tell  our  martyr's  death. 
"Is  this  the  end  ?  "  each  to  another  saith,  — 
Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

Is  this  the  outcome  of  our  prayers  and  tears? 
The  harvest  of  his  honest  toil  of  years 
Buoyed  by  strong  faith,  and  ne'er  a  prey  to  fears  ?- 
Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

And  has  it  ended  with  the  assassin's  blow  ? 
Why  has  it  been  permitted  so  ? 
We  feel  that  only  God  can  know. 
Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

A  finished  life !    More  perfect  in  its  plan 
Than  would  have  been  devised  by  man, 
Perfected  only  as  God  can. 

Gone!    Gone!    Gonel 

Had  he  remained  upon  the  chair  of  state, 
He  scarcely  could  escape  the  fate  — 
Envy  and  misjudgment  —  which  attends  the  great. 
Now  gone !    Gone !    Gone ! 

But  his  sublime  patience  on  a  bed  of  pain 
Has  bound  all  hearts  as  with  an  iron  chain : 
He  has  not  suffered  thus  in  vain, 
Though  gone!    Gone! 

What  richer  gift  could  bless  him  from  above 
Than  the  whole  nation's  undivided  love  ? 
Without  one  voice  that  will  dissenting  prove, 
Now  he  is  gone ! 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO  GARFIELD.  55 

His  upright  life  has  stood  eacli  crucial  test, 
His  living  every  mortal  blest, 
His  saintly  death  completes  the  rest. 
Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

No  more  his  voice  a  guiding  star  can  be ; 
But  his  great  soul  lives  in  eternity, 
And  his  pure  life  is  a  reality, 
Though  gone. 

Like  the  ripe  sheaf  that  is  cut  and  bound, 
Homeward  along  its  path  is  found, 
Broadcast,  rich  grain  upon  the  ground ; 

So  all  along  the  path  he  moved 

Are  found  in  the  hearts  of  those  he  loved 

Rare  memories  which  his  goodness  proved. 

The  words  that  all  our  hearts  have  thrilled 
Are  ours;  though  the  great  heart  is  stilled, 
And  the  soul  with  noble  motives  filled 
Is  gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

Again  our  chieftain's  voice  we  hear: 
As  the  sad  tolling  falls  upon  our  ear, 
The  calling  seemeth  very  near,  — 
Come !    Come !    Come ! 

Like  the  bell's  home,  the  tower  high, 
His  life  points  upward  to  the  sky: 
To  his  heart  heaven  was  always  nigh. 
Come !    Come !    Come ! 

God  heard  our  prayers,  not  as  we  would: 
His  great  love  better  understood, 
And  answered  as  a  Father  should. 
Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

Weep,  strong  men!  ye  have  lost  a  friend! 
With  heads  uncovered  to  your  Maker  bendl 

He  fashioned  that  great  soul, 

He  destined  this  great  end. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GARFIELD. 
JAMES  A.   GARFIELD. 

BY  GEOEGE  A.   PARKHUEST. 

[From  The  Lowell  Weekly  Journal.] 
REST,  hero,  rest!    Earth's  pains  are  o'er  : 

Thy  greatest  triumph  has  been  won, 
As,  echoing  from  heaven's  golden  door, 

We  seem  to  hear,  "  Servant,  well  done! " 

Rest,  hero,  rest !    For  thee  no  more 
The  tortured  frame,  the  fevered  brow ; 

But  on  eternity's  bright  shore 
The  peace  of  God  is  with  thee  now. 

Rest,  hero,  rest !    Secure  thy  fame 
Among  the  pure,  the  good,  the  great: 

Time's  record  bears  no  nobler  name 
Of  those  who  served  their  God  and  State. 

Rest,  hero,  rest!  While  round  thy  bier 
Columbia's  sons  are  bending  low, 

No  clime  but  drops  the  mourner's  tear, 
No  land  but  shares  the  common  woe. 

Rest,  brother,  rest!    In  this  sad  hour 
We  seek  thy  throne,  Father  divine  : 

Though  clouds  of  sorrow  round  us  lower, 

Teach  us  to  have  no  will  but  thine. 
CHELMSFOKD,  MASS.,  Sept.  22, 1881. 


TOLL  THE  BELLS  GENTLY. 

BY  D.  GILBERT  DEXTER. 

[From  The  Cambridge  Tribune.] 
TOLL  the  bells  gently !    Garfield  is  dead ! 

The  nation  is  weeping  a  noble  son  slain: 

It  may  be  his  equal  we'll  ne'er  see  again. 
Toll  the  bells  gently !    Hope  has  not  fled. 

Toll  the  bells  gently !    Toll  them  with  care ! 
"  Great  heart "  is  bleeding,  and  mourning  her  son, 
Whose  greatness  and  goodness  the  world's  homage  won. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    Toll  them  with  care! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  57 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    But  never  despair! 
The  nation  still  lives:  her  sons  may  depart 
Ne'er  to  return  —  let  the  living  take  heart. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    Toll  them  with  care! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    From  Elberon's  shore 
There  cometh  a  message  to  daughter  and  son 
That  "  God  knoweth  best"  how  the  victory's  won. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    The  struggle  is  o'er! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    From  Washington  home; 
Bind  up  the  hearts  that  are  breaking  in  grief  ; 
God  of  our  fathers,  oh  bring  sweet  relief! 

Toll  the  bells  gently !    In  bearing  him  home ! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    The  noble  one's  slain! 
On  Erie's  blest  shore,  near  the  home  he  loved  best, 
Lay  him  to  rest,  brothers,  lay  him  to  rest. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    Toll  them  gently  again! 


OUR  DEAD  PRESIDENT. 

[From  The  Bostou  Commonwealth.] 

THE  dreaded  news  has  come  at  last. 

Far  o'er  the  land  the  tidings  roll: 
The  lingering  life  from  us  has  past, 

And  grief  and  anguish  fill  our  soul. 

We  watched,  with  tender  care  and  true, 
These  long,  long  weeks  of  suffering  keen: 

Our  hopes  and  prayers  around  him  grew, 
That  better  days  would  yet  be  seen. 

For,  as  the  sun  at  times  will  dart 

Through  clouds  that  threaten  all  the  day, 

So  gleams  of  hope  for  us  would  start, 
And  make  us  trust  the  fuller  ray. 

But  now  we  know  the  night  has  come ; 

The  orb  has  set  we  loved  so  well : 
The  patriot  finds  the  heavenly  home 

Where  all  true  souls  in  union  dwell. 


58  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD. 

His  life  was  done.    The  power  yet  lives 
That  builds  a  nation  true  and  wise; 

And  God,  in  his  sad  dying,  gives 
A  morning  promise  to  our  skies. 

For  shall  we  not  more  faithful  be 
To  this  Republic,  torn  and  crost, 

And  place  her  foremost  of  the  free, 
That  nothing  to  mankind  be  lost  ? 

And  shall  we  not  to  her  accord 
A  service  perfect,  wise,  and  true, 

And  help  along  his  good  life-word, 
And  in  our  lives  his  own  renew  ? 


THE  MIDNIGHT  KNELL. 

BY   HENRY  C.   DANE. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 
I  SAT  at  the  hour  of  midnight, 

Weary  and  sad  and  lone, 
In  fancy  watching  the  lamplight 

That  from  the  sick-room  shone ; 
While  a  silence  deep  and  solemn 

Brooded  over  the  earth,  — 
The  silence  attending  the  column 

Of  angels  —  leading  Death! 

The  heart  of  Nature  seemed  throbbing 

With  pity,  pain,  and  woe, 
As  it  watched  a  nation  sobbing 

With  anguish  deep  and  low, 
While  it  waited  and  hoped  with  fear 

The  tidings  at  the  dawn,  — 
The  tidings  it  dreaded  to  hear 

From  that  cot  at  Elberon ! 

Once  more  I  perused  the  message,  — 

"  It  still  looks  very  dark  ! " 
And  thought  of  that  noble  visage 

That  lay  in  Elberon' s  —     Hark  I 
Out  from  the  towering  steeple, 

Breaking  the  weary  spell, 
Came  the  message  to  the  people,  — 

The  deep,  the  midnight  knell! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAR  FIELD.  59 

"  Gone! "  "  Gone!"  it  rang,  —  that  doleful  bell, 

From  spire  and  dome  and  tower, 
Crushing  a  nation  with  its  knell,  — 

That  awful  midnight  hour! 
On,  on  it  rolled  o'er  distant  West, 

Through  valleys  broad  and  deep, 
Waking  a  nation  from  its  rest, 

To  bow  with  grief,  and  weep. 

Daughter  heroic,  and  mother, 

Your  tortures  who  dare  tell,  — 
There  without  son  and  brother, 

By  him  you  loved  so  well,- 
A  nation  holds  you  to  its  heart, 

And  hold  you  will  forever: 
It  shares  with  you  the  bitter  part; 

Its  love  nought  e'er  can  sever. 

Gone !  gone !  our  hero-chieftain  gone ! 

Struck  in  his  hour  of  might, 
And  falling  o'er  his  work  undone, 

Because  he  dared  the  right. 
O  people  boasting  of  thy  power  I 

O  nation  just  begun ! 
Learn  thy  lesson  from  this  sad  hour, 

And  see  thy  duty  done ! 

Gaze  on  that  f  orm  so  tried  and  torn ; 

Gaze  on  that  deep-scarred  face: 
There  learn  the  lesson  not  yet  won,  — 

The  duties  ye  must  face ! 
O  men  of  honor,  truth,  and  power! 

O  men  of  mighty  zeal ! 
Step  to  the  front  in  this  dark  hour, 

And  help  our  woes  to  heal! 

From  Vernon's  deep  and  silent  shade, 

From  Marshfield' a  solemn  shore, 
From  Oakland's  calm  and  peaceful  glade, 

And  all  the  broad  land  o'er, 
From  those  who  sleep  in  patriot  graves, 

The  warning  voice  is  heard,  — 
"  This  is  your  hour!  be  men,  not  slaves  I 

Redeem  our  plighted  word!" 
BOSTON,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GABFIELD. 
"THE  PRESIDENT  IS  DEAD!" 

i 

BT   8.  V.   A. 

[From  The  Boston  Home  Journal.] 

GONE  in  his  fair  and  manly  prime ; 

Gone  in  his  faith  and  hope  sublime; 

Gone  when  his  feet  had  climbed  so  high, 

No  step  remained  but  to  the  sky; 

Then  on  earth's  topmost  round,  his  ear 

Caught  greetings  from  the  upper  sphere, 

And  angel  voices  whispered,  "  Come! 

Thy  work  is  done!  come  home!  come  home!" 

"I'm  ready;  I'm  content,"  he  said; 

And  while  the  stricken  nation  plead 

In  words  of  agonizing  prayer, 

That  God  her  ruler's  life  might  spare, 

He  with  a  calm,  unfaltering  heart, 

Waited  until  the  poisoned  dart 

Should  end  its  mission,  whether  life 

In  realms  above,  or  toil  and  strife 

Below  might  be  his  lot,  and  still 

Submissive,  bowed  unto  the  Will 

That  holds  the  nations  in  His  hand, 

And  at  whose  word  they  fall  or  stand. 

O  Garfield !  President  beloved ! 

Ruler  and  statesman,  tried  and  proved, 

We  write  thy  name  among  earth's  peers, 

We  send  it  down  the  coming  years, 

Wreathed  with  rich  honors,  memories  proud, 

Of  courage  ne'er  by  evil  cowed, 

Of  patriot  deed,  and  lofty  aim  — 

We  crown  it  with  immortal  fame, 

And  unto  thousands  yet  unborn 

The  heritage  we  leave,  that,  shorn 

Of  all  dishonor,  they  may  tread 

The  rugged  path  of  duty,  led 

By  thine  example,  chaste  and  pure 

As  those  who  martyrdom  endure. 

We  mourn  for  thee  with  falling  tears; 

Our  bosoms  swell  with  rising  fears; 

With  grievous  wounds  our  spirits  bleed. 

O  Father!  in  this  hour  of  need, 

Be  with  our  country:  may  the  rod 

Of  chastening,  watered  with  the  blood 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  61 

Of  this  most  noble  victim,  bloom 
With  flowers  that  even  o'er  his  tomb 
Shall  shed  such  odorous  sweets,  that  not 
In  vain  the  sacrifice,  the  blot 
That  crimson  stains  our  lovely  land 
From  Eastern  unto  Western  strand. 
May  such  a  band  of  heroes  rise, 
So  loyal,  temperate,  true,  and  wise, 
So  just,  alike  to  friends  and  foes, 
That  his  pure  life,  and  e'en  its  close, 
Shall  bear,  though  grief  now  makes  it  mute, 
A  harvest  of  immortal  fruit. 
SEPT.  19, 1881. 


"GOD  GRANT  HIM   PEACE." 

BY  ANNA  FORD  PIPEB. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 

Low  lies  our  noble  dead, 
Who  for  his  country  bled. 
God  grant  him  peace! 
With  each  new  morning's  ray, 
And  'mid  the  toil  of  day, 
Father,  to  thee  we  pray, 
.   God  grant  him  peace ! 

Gone  is  our  guiding  hand, 
Gone  to  the  silent  land, 

Gone  evermore ! 
Yet  while  enthroned  on  high, 
Christ  reigns  in  majesty, 
Father,  to  thee  we  cry, 

God  grant  him  peace! 

Pure,  noble,  just,  and  free, 
Still  may  our  nation  be, 

Father,  we  pray. 
May  we  through  darkest  night, 
Led  by  thy  beacon  light, 
Like  him  defend  the  right. 

God  grant  him  peace! 


62  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAR  FIELD. 

JAMES  A.   GARFIELD. 

I 

BY   EMMA   POMEKOY   EATON. 
[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 

O  SWEET  and  patient  soul,  enduring,  boldl 
Thy  rare,  ennobling  virtues  were  not  told 
Until,  sore  stricken  by  no  fault  of  thine, 
A  waiting  world  beheld  thy  strength  divine. 

Hast  thou  not  honor,  when  from  east  to  west 
The  whole  world  round  obeys  one  sad  behest? 
Prone  at  thy  bier  a  sorrowing  people  lies, 
And  each  with  all  in  lowly  homage  vies. 

O  noble  one  and  true!  thou  canst  not  die. 
Throned  in  the  nation's  heart,  thou  liv'st  for  aye: 
Thine  aim  and  purpose  shall  thy  life  outrun, 
Nor  aim  and  purpose  die,  though  life  be  done. 
CAMBRIDGE,  Sept.  23, 1881. 


GARFIELD    DEAD. 


[From  The  Capital.] 
"  Duncan  is  in  his  grave: 
After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 
Treason  has  done  his  worst;  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further." —  Shakspeare, 

HURT  unto  death,  and  dead  at  last.     In  vain 
The  cry  of  anguish  from  the  people  wrung, 
That  like  a  tender  mother  tearful  hung, 

In  grief  sublime, 
Counting  by  pulse-beats  the  fatal  steps  of  time 

Above  that  bed  of  pain. 

The  land  was  dark  with  sorrow.     From  wooded  Maine 
To  where  the  wide  Pacific  chafes  the  Golden  Gate, 
From  blue  North  lakes  down  to  the  Flowery  State, 
From  cities,  hamlets,  mountain,  glen  and  plain, 

E'en  from  the  wilderness, 
Wherever  a  human  heart  has  beat,  or  human  footstep  f  rod, 

Went  up  to  God 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GABFIELD.  63 

The  cry  for  succor  in  our  sore  distress. 

The  fearful  rent, 
That  internecine  war  wrought  us  in  twain, 

His  precious  blood  is  God's  cement, 
To  bind  us  in  one  brotherhood  again. 
Grief  washed  out  Passion's  angry  hue, 
And  mingling  tears  for  him  come  gray  and  blue. 

In  vain 
May  selfish  factions  seek  once  more  to  reign, 

And  stir  to  life 

Our  evil  passions  into  bloody  strife, 
That  once  our  nation's  hopes  in  common  ruin  blent. 
Land  whispered  unto  land.    Beneath  the  solemn  main, 

Through  dark,  unfathomed  caves,  the  lightning-laden  nerve  of  life 
For  an  instant  trembled  with  our  tale  of  pain, 

And  nations  paused,  amid  their  vexing  strife, 
To  send  their  sorrow  back  to  us  again. 
Crowned  heads  were  bowed ;  and  back-bent  toil, 
Watering  with  unrequited  sweat  the  alien  soil, 

With  uncovered  head, 
Stood  in  the  presence  of  our  mighty  dead. 
The  dead  have  lain  in  state, 
The  wise,  the  good,  the  great,  — 
Soldier,  statesman,  potentate,  — 
And  o'er  the  laud,  to  grief  awake, 
Huge  bells  swinging  to  and  fro, 

Solemn  and  slow, 

With  iron  tongues  have  told  their  tales  of  woe, 
While  waves  of  music  beat  upon  the  air 
In  rhythmed  sweetness  all  their  wild  despair. 
It  was  our  living  that  we  laid  in  state: 

And  the  nation,  desolate, 
Through  the  heavy  watches  with  breath  abate: 
And  hearts  nigh  broken  praying  for  the  balm 
Of  health  again;  for  on  that  quickening  breath 
And  fever-hurried  face  rode  Death. 
Ah !  not  for  him  alone :  we  saw  with  dread 
The  Great  Republic  hanging  by  a  slender  thread; 

And  he  alone  was  calm. 
Patient  and  brave,  as  gentle  as  a  child, 

He  sadly  smiled, 
While  grief  around  was  wild, 

And  took  the  chance  they  gave  him.     Tender  and  true, 
How  sweet  and  homely  were  his  words  of  cheer, 
In  answer  to  his  poor  wife's  tears  and  fear, 


64  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

"  Don't  cry,  sweetheart:  we  will  yet  pull  through.'' 
What  recks  all  glory  to  that  lonely  home, 
Where  sits  the  mother,  aged  and  alone  ? 
Of  all,  alas !  bereft,  sad  she  sits,  and  dreams 

Upon  life's  earlier  scenes,  — 
Of  the  hard  struggle  and  her  noble  son, 
Who  fought  through  all  until  the  goal  was  won; 
And  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  with  loving  grace, 
Turned  to  kiss  her  in  the  nation's  place. 

She  cannot  feel  him  dead: 
His  manly  form  and  noble  head 

Are  ever  with  her;  he's  "  her  baby  "  still. 
The  dim  perceptions  cloud  the  present  o'er, 

And  save  the  pains  that  kill. 
The  broken  rainbow  yet  its  arch  retains, 
And  points  to  earth  like  life.     Our  grave  remains, 
Whatever  glory  be  for  us  in  store. 

God  help  the  brave,  true  heart 

That  lost  not  hope  till  hope  itself  was  dead,  — 
The  loving  wife,  who  filled  an  angel's  part, 

And  smiled  to  cheer  above  a  heart  that  bled; 
Who  crowded  down  the  blinding  tears 
And  anguished  fears, 
Hiding  her  pain, 
That  she  alone  might  nurse  her  lord  to  life  again. 

Our  hero's  widow  is  a  nation's  care, 
Her  babes  the  people's  own. 
Ah,  me !  of  what  avail  the  groan, 

The  lamentations  all  must  share  ? 
Vain  mockery  of  words.     They  deeper  grief  will  rtart 
To  one  who  carries  dead  like  this  upon  her  living  heart. 

Thou  art  gone ; 

And  the  great  world  goes  roaring  on,  — 
The  cities  hum  of  human  life,  the  roar 
Of  ocean  on  the  rocky  shore ; 
Season  follows  season;  and  o'er  the  land, 
In  sun  and  storm,  the  farmer's  horny  hand 
Tills  the  warm  earth ; 
Myriads  of  men  have  birth, 
And  myriads  are  carried  to  the  tomb; 
Birds  sing,  and  flowers  bloom, 
And  shining  rivers  roll  in  music  to  the  sea: 
No  more,  no  more ;  oh !  never  more  may  we 
Turn  in  our  love  to  thee. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  65 

We  search  in  vain, 
By  mountain  side,  or  lake,  or  plain, 
Or  thy  loved  solitude 
Of  thought-haunted  wood, 

Or  rocky  glen, 

Or  'mid  the  busy  haunts  of  men: 
No  more  may  we  our  hero  see. 
Thy  kingly  form  is  mouldering  into  dust; 
Thy  spirit  is  with  God,  we  trust; 

Thy  life  has  passed  into  a  memory. 
MAC-O-CHEE,  21st  September,  1881. 


REQUIEM. 

BY  H.  L.  HASTINGS. 
[From  The  Boston  Journal.] 
TOLL,  toll  the  bells! 
The  midnight  silence  waking. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
The  nation's  heart  is  breaking. 

-Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
Nor  tarry  till  the  morrow. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
That  voice  a  nation's  sorrow. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
A  stricken  widow  weepeth. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells!  • 
A  wearied  sufferer  sleepeth. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
Now  to  thy  knees,  O  nation! 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
In  God  is  thy  salvation. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
The  solemn  memory  cherish. 

One  man  has  died,1 
Let  not  the  nation  perish  I 
CHELSEA,  Midnight,  Sept.  19, 1881. 

1  St.  John's  Gospel,  xi.  50. 


66  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

GARFIELD'S  RIDE  AT  CHICKAMAUGA. 

[SEPTEMBER  20,  1863.] 
BY  HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTTI. 

AGAIN  the  summer-fevered  skies 

The  breath  of  autumn  calms; 
Again  the  golden  moons  arise 

On  harvest-happy  farms. 
The  locusts  pipe,  the  crickets  sing 

Among  the  falling  leaves, 
And  wandering  breezes  sigh,  and  bring 

The  harp-notes  of  the  sheaves. 

Peace  smiles  upon  the  hills  and  dells; 

Peace  smiles  upon  the  seas ; 
And  drop  the  notes  of  happy  bells 

Upon  the  fruited  trees. 
The  broad  Missouri  stretches  far 

Her  commerce-gathering  arms, 
And  multiply  on  Arkansaw 

The  grain-encumbered  farms. 

Old  Chattanooga,  crowned  with  green, 

Sleeps  'neath  her  walls  in  peace; 
The  Argo  has  returned  again. 

And  brings  the  Golden  Fleece. 
O  nation !  free  from  sea  to  sea, 

In  union  blessed  forever, 
Fair  be  their  fame  who  fought  for  thee 

By  Chickwnauga  River. 

The  autumn  winds  were  piping  low, 

Beneath  the  vine-clad  eaves ; 
We  heard  the  hollow  bugle  blow 

Among  the  ripened  sheaves. 
And  fast  the  mustering  squadrons  passed 

Through  mountain  portals  wide, 
And  swift  the  blue  brigades  were  massed 

By  Chickamauga's  tide. 

It  was  the  sabbath ;  and  in  awe 
We  heard  the  dark  hills  shake, 

And  o'er  the  mountain  turrets  saw 
The  smoke  of  battle  break. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  67 

And  'neath  that  war-cloud,  gray  and  grand, 

The  hills  o'erhanging  low, 
The  Army  of  the  Cumberland, 

Unequal,  met  the  foe ! 

Again,  O  fair  September  night! 

Beneath  the  moon  and  stars, 
I  see,  through  memories  dark  and  bright, 

The  altar-fires  of  Mars. 
The  morning  breaks  with  screaming  guns 

From  batteries  dark  and  dire, 
And  where  the  Chickamauga  runs 

Red  runs  the  muskets'  fire. 

I  see  bold  Longstreet's  darkening  host 

Sweep  through  our  lines  of  flame, 
And  hear  again,  "  The  right  is  lost! " 

Swart  Rosecrans  exclaim. 
"But  not  the  left,"  young  Garfield  cries: 

"  From  that  we  must  not  sever, 
While  Thomas  holds  the  field  that  lies 

On  Chickamauga  River!" 

Oh !  on  that  day  of  clouded  gold, 

How,  half  of  hope  bereft, 
The  cannoneers,  like  Titans,  rolled 

Their  thunders  on  the  left! 
I  see  the  battle-clouds  again, 

With  glowing  autumn  splendors  blending: 
It  seemed  as  if  the  gods  with  men 

Were  on  Olympian  heights  contending. 

Through  tongues  of  flame,  through  meadows  brown, 

Dry  valley  roads  concealed, 
Ohio's  hero  dashes  down 

Upon  the  rebel  field. 
And  swift,  on  reeling  charger  borne, 

He  threads  the  wooded  plain, 
By  twice  a  hundred  cannon  mown, 

And  reddened  with  the  slain. 

But  past  the  swathes  of  carnage  dire, 

The  Union  guns  he  hears, 
And  gains  the  left,  begirt  with  fire, 

And  thus  the  heroes  cheers  — 


68  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

"While  stands  the  left,  yon  flag  o'erhead, 

Shall  Chattanooga  stand ! " 
"Let  the  Napoleons  rain  their  lead!" 

Was  Thomas's  command. 

Back  swept  the  gray  brigades  of  Bragg; 

The  air  with  victory  rung ; 
And  Wurzel's  "Rally  round  the  flag!" 

'Mid  Union  cheers  was  sung. 
The  flag  on  Chattanooga's  height 

In  twilight's  crimson  waved, 
And  all  the  clustered  stars  of  white 

Were  to  the  Union  saved. 

O  chief  of  staff!  the  nation's  fate 
That  red  field  crossed  with  thee, 

The  triumph  of  the  camp  and  state, 
The  hope  of  liberty ! 

0  nation  I  free  from  sea  to  sea, 
With  union  blessed  forever, 

Not  vainly  heroes  fought  for  thee 
By  Chickamauga  River. 

In  dreams  I  stand  beside  the  tide 

Where  those  old  heroes  fell  : 
Above  the  valleys  long  and  wide 

Sweet  rings  the  sabbath  bell. 

1  hear  no  more  the  bugle  blow, 
As  on  that  fateful  day : 

I  hear  the  ringdove  fluting  low, 
.  Where  shaded  waters  stray. 

On  Mission  Ridge  the  sunlight  streams 

Above  the  fields  of  fall, 
And  Chattanooga  calmly  dreams 

Beneath  her  mountain-wall. 
Old  Lookout  Mountain  towers  on  high, 

As  in  heroic  days, 
When  'neath  the  battle  in  the  sky 

Were  seen  its  summits  blaze. 

'Twas  ours  to  lay  no  garlands  fair 
Upon  the  graves  "unknown:" 

Kind  Nature  sets  her  gentians  there, 
And  fall  the  sear  leaves  lone. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  69 

Those  heroes'  graves  no  shaft  of  Mars 

May  mark  with  beauty  ever; 
But  floats  the  flag  of  forty  stars 

By  Chickamauga  River. 


THE  MINUTE-BELLS. 

BY  T.   H.   C. 

[From  The  Transcript.] 

THERE  passed  a  sound,  at  midnight,  through  the  land, 
A  solemn  sound  of  sorrow  and  of  fear,  — 
A  sound  that  fell  on  every  wakening  ear 

Bearing  a  message  all  could  understand,  — 

The  good,  brave  chief  struck  by  the  assassin's  hand, 
The  choice  of  one,  but  to  all  parties  dear; 
A  patriot,  honest,  upright,  and  sincere, 

In  presence  noble,  and  in  action  grand. 
And  now  that  death,  through  weeks  of  agony, 
Has  led  him  to  his  rest,  the  nation  sends, 
Like  Egypt  in  her  tenth  and  final  blow, 

Through  all  the  land  a  loud  and  bitter  cry; 
And  feels,  like  her,  as  o'er  her  dead  she  bends, 
There  is  in  every  home  a  present  woe. 


PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 

[From  The  London  Spectator.] 
THE  hush  of  the  sick-room;  the  muffled  tread; 
Fond,  questioning  eye;  mute  lip,  and  listening  ear; 
Where  wife  and  children  watch,  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 
A  father's,  husband's  living-dying  bed!  — 
The  hush  of  a  great  nation,  when  its  head 
Lies  stricken!    Lo!  along  the  streets  he's  borne, 
Pale,  through  rank'd  crowds,  this  gray  September  mom, 
'Mid  straining  eyes,  sad  brows  unbonneted, 
And  reverent  speechlessness !  —  a  "people's  voicel" 
Nay,  but  a  people's  silence!  through  the  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  its  subtler  echoes  roll, 
O  brother  nation!    England  for  her  part 
Iswiththee:  God  willing,  she  whose  heart 
Throbbed  with  thy  pain  shall  with  thy  joy  rejoice. 
SEPT.  6, 1881. 


70  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO  GAEFIELD. 


JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

[From  Andrews's  American  Queen.] 
SPEAK  softly;  for  the  midnight  bell  has  tolled, 
And  o'er  the  living  world  the  news  has  sped 
That  he  who  gave  his  life  for  us  is  dead, 
Our  loved  one  that  was  cast  in  knightly  mould. 

Tread  gently  till  that  treasured  form  is  laid 
Beneath  the  sod  he  would  have  died  to  save. 
He  who  on  earth  was  bravest  of  the  brave 

Now  sleeps  in  peace,  none  making  him  afraid. 

Weep  sorely;  for  our  hearts  are  sore  to-day 
For  him  who  calmly  suffered  and  was  strong,  — 
For  him  who  bore  a  cruel,  bitter  wrong, 

That  centuries  of  tears  can  never  wash  away. 

Speak  kindly:  let  us  chant  our  hero's  praise, 
And  sing  of  deeds  that  won  him  deathless  fame; 
So  that  our  children  may  revere  his  name, 

And  learn  the  mighty  truths  of  former  days. 

Tell  proudly  how,  with  penury's  chill  hand, 
This  son  of  freedom  fought  his  way  to  place; 
Passing  his  compeers  in  the  upward  race, 

Until  he  stood  the  foremost  in  the  land. 

Tread  softly:  lie  is  gone,  the  good,  the  just, 
Our  noble  Garfield,  loved  above  his  peers. 
Be  ours  the  pride  within  the  coming  years 

To  cherish  those  he  loved,  —  the  people's  trust. 


IN  MEMOEIAM. 

BY  MRS.  EVA  M°NAIB  PARSONS. 

[From  Louisville  Courier-Journal.] 
THERE  cometh  a  moan  on  the  autumn  air: 
'Tis  the  wail  of  a  nation's  dark  despair; 
And  its  echoes  athwart  the  billows  sweep 
Of  the  mighty  ocean,  dark  and  deep. 
In  accents  low  says  the  voice  of  dread,  — 
"  Our  chieftain  is  numbered  with  the  dead." 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO  GABFIELD.  71 

Crushed  by  the  murderer's  fatal  shot, 
Now  low  he  lies:  while  a  loathsome  blot 
Made  by  the  deed  our  banner  bears ; 
And  the  constant  rain  of  a  nation's  tears, 
And  the  law's  reward,  and  the  hangman's  due, 
And  the  curse  of  the  noble,  brave,  and  true, 
Can  ne'er  to  its  spotless  woof  restore 
The  pure  and  pristine  hues  it  wore. 

Nothing  can  waken  and  stir  again 
The  busy  thoughts  of  that  silent  brain; 
Nought  of  the  chemist's  or  surgeon's  skill 
Bring  to  the  pulses  the  life's  glad  thrill: 
"Worn  with  its  struggle,  the  body's  guest, 
The  tireless  spirit,  has  soared  to  rest. 

O  Goddess  of  Liberty,  veil  thy  face ! 
Plant  thou  a  cypress  within  the  place 
Where  once  in  its  glory  and  grandeur  grew 
The  chartered  worth  of  our  freedom  new, 
And,  over  our  blood-bought  victories  past, 
The  dreary  pall  of  bereavement  cast. 

O  patriots,  rise  and  avenge  the  deed ! 
No  longer  the  brazen  Moloch  feed, 
Which  stretches  its  arms  both  far  and  wide, 
For  the  gains  of  dishonor,  fraud,  and  pride; 
Denies  the  waters  which  flood  the  state 
With  poisoned  draughts  of  revenge  and  hate; 
While  virtue  in  widowed  sorrow  weeps 
Above  the  couch  where  her  victim  sleeps. 
LOUISVILLE,  KT.,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


THE  SOBBING  OF  THE  BELLS. 

(MIDNIGHT,  SEPTEMBER  19-20.) 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN. 

THE  sobbing  of  the  bells,  the  sudden  death-news  everywhere, 

Tbe  slumberers  rouse,  the  rapport  of  the  People, 

(Full  well  they  know  that  message  in  the  darkness, 

Full  well  return  the  sad  reverberations,) 

The  passionate  toll  and  clang  —  city  to  city,  joining,  sounding,  passing, 

Those  heart-beats  of  a  Nation  in  the  night. 

[From  a  forthcoming  volume.] 


72  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO  GABFIELD. 


GARFIELD. 

[From  Puck.] 
LAY  him  to  sleep  whom  we  have  learned  to  love; 

Lay  him  to  sleep  whom  we  have  learned  to  trust. 

No  blossom  of  hope  shall  spring  from  out  his  dust ; 
No  flower  of  faith  shall  bloom  his  sod  above. 

Although  the  sod  by  sorrowful  hands  be  drest, 

Although  the  dust  with  tenderest  tears  be  drenched, 
A  feebler  light  succeeds  the  new  light  quenched, 

And  weaker  hands  the  strong  hands  crossed  in  rest. 

Our  new,  our  untried  leader  —  when  he  rose, 
Though  still  old  hatreds  fed  upon  old  griefs, 
Death  or  disgrace  had  stilled  the  cry  of  chiefs 

Of  old  who  rallied  us  against  our  foes. 

A  soldier  of  the  camp,  we  knew  him  thus: 
No  saintly  champion,  high  above  his  kind, 
To  follow  with  devotion  mad  and  blind,  — 

He  fought  and  fared,  essayed  and  erred,  with  us. 

And  so,  half-hearted,  went  we  where  he  led; 

And,  following  whither  beckoned  his  bright  blade, 
Learned  his  high  will  and  purpose  undismayed; 

And  brought  him  all  our  faith  —  and  f ounri  him  dead. 

Is  of  the  sacred  pall,  that  once  of  yore 

Draped  Lincoln  dead,  one  mouldering  fragment  left '? 

Spread  it  above  him,  —  knight  whose  helm  was  cleft 
Fair  in  the  fight,  as  his  who  fell  before. 

As  his  who  fell  before,  his  seat  we  dress 

With  pitiful  shreds  of  black,  that  flow  and  fail 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  breeze,  whose  wail 

Prays  us  respect'that  hallowed  emptiness. 

Ay  I  who  less  worthy  now  may  take  that  chair, 
If  our  first  martyr's  spirit  on  one  hand 
And  this  new  ghost  upon  the  other  stand, 

Saying,  Betray  thy  country  if  thou  dare! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  73 

GARFIELD. 

BY  JAMES    FBANKLIX   FITTS. 

[From  The  Philadelphia  North-Americau.] 

CHICKAMAUGA,  SEPT.  19,  1863. 

UNDAUNTED  'mid  the  whirlwind  storm  of  war, 

The  shock  of  surging  foes,  the  wild  dismay 

Of  shattered  legions,  swept  in  blood  away, 
While  the  red  conflict,  thundering  afar, 

Eaged  on  the  left  —  yet  all  unseen,  unknown  — 

Great  chieftain!  man  of  men!  'twas  thine  alone, 
With  faith  and  courage  high,  the  guiding  star 

Of  that  disastrous  field,  to  seek  the  fray 

Where  still  the  hosts  of  Union  hold  their  own, 
With  wasting  lines  that  stand,  and  strive,  and  bleed, 

Waiting  the  promise  of  a  better  day. 
O  steadfast  soul !    O  heart  of  oak !    No  harm 
Could  reach  thee  then:  thou  hadst  for  shield  His  arm 
Who  kept  thee  for  the  nation's  later  need. 

-    ELBERON,  SEPT.  19,  1881. 

Gone  are  the  weary,  woeful  weeks  of  pain ; 

Dead  are  a  nation's  hopes,  and  hot  her  tears. 

The  immemorial  cycle  of  the  years 
Of  people's  woe  completes  itself  again. 
And  thou,  great  soul!  —  that  through  these  times  of  peace 

Hast  with  thy  highest  might  that  nation  served, 

And  best  endeavor ;  who  hast  never  swerved 
From  right,  midst  faction's  brawl  that  will  not  cease, 
And  who,  through  all  these  «arking  months  of  woe, 

Hast  held  thyself  as  patient  and  serene 

As  when  on  Chickamauga's  field  between 
The  eddying  lines  that  wavered  to  and  fro 

Like  stormy  ocean  tides,  thou  didst  demean 
Thyself  the  hero,  —  enter  now  thy  rest ! 

A  nation's  grief  shall  keep  thy  memory  green, 
A  nation's  love  enshrine  thee  in  her  breast. 

LOCKPORT,  N.Y. 


74  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

HE  LOVED  OUR  CRAFT. 

BY  E.   S.   B. 

[From  The  Publishers'  Weekly.] 
NOT  as  for  one  \vho  held  with  steady  hand 
The  centred  interests  of  his  native  land, 
Not  for  a  leader  lost,  a  patriot  dead, 
Alone  our  grief  is  spent,  our  tears  are  shed : 
We  mourn  a  mind  at  rest,  a  great  brain  stilled, 
A  noble  intellect  in  madness  killed. 
He  loved  our  craft  of  books,  that  gives  to  man 
The  garnered  thoughts  that  past  and  present  span, 
A  tireless  student  still  he  reads  the  page 
That  yields  life-lessons  both  from  wit  and  sage. 
So,  while  we  mourn  our  stricken  ruler  slain, 
Our  deeper  loss  but  gives  us  deeper  pain. 


GARFIELD. 

BY  AKTHUB  N.   WILI-CUTT. 

[From  The  Boston  Post.] 

THE  lightning  rends  the  mighty  oak, 

And  hurls  it  prostrate  to  the  earth  : 

The  power  that  gave  the  deadly  stroke 

Returns  to  whence  it  had  its  birth. 

But  nevermore  will  come  again 
To  life  the  oak,  or  life  to  man : 

Its  glory  was  its  earthly  bane, 

The  height  to  which  its  measure  ran. 

So  Garfield  fell!  the  assassin's  hand 
Was  but  the  force  that  moves  unseen, 

A  test,  perhaps,  for  our  loved  land 
To  try  its  faith,  —  on  God  to  lean. 

Maybe  some  duty  unfulfilled, ' 
Some  wrongful  act  to  race  or  creed, 

Has  made  the  nation's  life  thus  spilled 
A  sacrifice  to  atone  the  deed. 

And  while  a  wail  goes  o'er  the  land 
At  Garfield's  brutal,  bloody  fall, 

Let  North  and  South  united  stand, 
And  trust  in  Him  who  ruleth  all. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GABFIELD.  75 

A  NATION'S  SORROW. 

BY   JOHN  BEADE. 

[From  The  Montreal  Gazette.] 
"  Is  this  the  end  of  our  waiting  and  hoping  so  long  ? 

O  Death,  thou  hast  taken  our  hero !    The  vigorous  will 
Is  powerless  now;  and  the  heart,  so  tender  and  strong, 

So  patient  and  loving  to  all,  at  last  is  still. 

"  Oh!  that  such  as  he  should  be  stricken  down  in  his  prime, 

By  a  craven  hand,  out  of  fifty  millions  and  more! 
We  shall  know  what  it  means,  no  doubt,  in  God's  good  tune; 

But  now  we  question  in  vaiii,  and  our  hearts  are  sore. 

"  Thou  hast  pierced  with  thy  sting,  O  Death!  a  nation's  heart: 
Could  nought  but  our  noblest  and  wisest  have  sufficed? 

We  would  bow  to  His  will,  whose  servant,  O  Death !  thou  art ; 
But  oh!  must  Barabbas  be  ever  preferred  to  Christ? 

"  O  God!  thou  knowest,  whatever  our  sins  have  been, 
That  he  whom  we  mourn  to-day  was  loyal  and  good : 

His  aims  were  honest,  his  heart  and  his  hands  were  clean, 
He  never  followed  in  evil  the  multitude. 

"  True  patriot  ever,  true  martyr,  —  what  nobler  life 
Lives  in  the  world's  great  record  of  deathless  fame? 

And  ages  hence,  when  hushed  are  these  sounds  of  strife, 
A  grander  nation  in  honor  will  hold  his  name. 

"Even  now,  as  we  stand  by  our  soldier-statesman's  grave, 

The  martyr-seed  gives  promise  of  blessed  fruit: 
Baffled  and  wan,  Sedition  forgets  to  rave, 

And  Faction,  ashamed,  has  been  stricken  stark  and  mute. 

"  From  former  foes  comes  a  voice  of  generous  sorrow, 
And  North  and  South  have  united  their  tears  for  the  slain ; 

While  afar  through  the  mist  of  our  grief  shines  the  dawn  of  a  morrow 
When  to  conflict  peace  shall  succeed,  and  gladness  to  pain." 


Such  is  the  wail  that  we  hear  on  the  southern  breeze, 
From  a  kindred  race  for  a  ruler  of  noble  heart; 

Not  unknown  to  us,  too,  are  such  awful  sorrows  as  these, 
And  fain,  if  we  could,  would  we  neighborly  solace  impart. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES  TO  GAEFIELD. 

O  wife  and  children  dear!    O  mother  revered! 

While  your  nation  weeps  with  you  for  its  martyred  chief, 
His  memory  makes  you  to  all  mankind  endeared, 

And  monarch  and  peasant  share  alike  in  your  grief. 

God  grant  you  comfort,  bereaved  ones,  and  pitying  love, 
To  whom  the  widow  and  orphan  are  ever  dear, 

And  bring  you  at  last  to  that  happy  home  above, 
Where  friends  part  never,  and  love  casts  out  all  fear. 


Thy  ways,  O  God !  are  far  as  east  to  west  from  ours ; 

Thou  seest  of  all  that  happens  beginning,  middle,  and  end; 
What  now  is  bitter  seed  may  one  day  be  sweet  flowers, 

And  what  seems  now  so  dark  to  light  and  joy  may  tend. 

Even  in  this  sad  season  of  a  nation's  fiery  trial, 

And  searching  of  the  hearts  of  men  that  sit  on  high, 

'Tis  well  to  know,  that,  in  an  age  of  doubting  and  denial, 
There  are  such  men  as  Garfield  was,  in  faith  to  live  and  die. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

BY  LILIAN  WHITING. 
[From  The  Cincinnati  Commercial.] 
OH!  where  shall  we  lay  our  deep  sorrow  ? 

How  speak  of  our  loss  ? 
Since  our  hero,  our  martyr,  is  given 
The  crown  for  the  cross  ? 

Since  he,  our  ruler,  our  leader, 

Our  nation's  true  guide, 
Has  entered  that  rest  which  remaineth 

In  the  fair  summer-tide  ? 

He  has  fought  the  good  fight ;  he  has  entered 

The  rest  that  God  gave ; 
And  the  lives  he  has  blessed  bring  the  tribute 

We  lay  on  his  grave. 

For  all,  in  his  presence  benignant, 

Were  exalted  and  cheered; 
And  virtue  seemed  more  to  be  cherished, 

And  sin  to  be  feared. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  77 

Our  country,  whose  lessons  our  martyr 

So  faithfully  taught, 
Brings  its  tears  and  its  love,  —  ay,  its  gladness, 

For  the  work  that  he  wrought. 

Bring  your  gratitude,  country  immortal, 

O'er  land  and  o'er  sea! 
For  the  tears  of  two  nations  shall  mingle, 

Our  hero,  for  thee ! 

Oh!  still  from  that  life  thou  has  entered, 

Behold  us,  we  pray ; 
Vouchsafe  still  to  guide  and  direct  us, 

And  teach  us  the  way. 

And  so,  in  the  hush  of  the  autumn, 

In  its  silence  and  calm, 
We  will  gather  the  few  leaves  of  healing, 

For  sorrow  a  balm ; 

And  remember  his  greatness,  his  honor, 

His  rare  culture  and  grace, 
His  rich  gifts  and  firm  faith  that  no  other 

Can  hope  to  replace. 

And  still  will  the  God  of  the  nations 

Make  our  sorrow  a  shrine 
When  we  wait,  in  sublime  aspirations, 

The  guidance  divine! 
BOSTON,  Sept.  21, 18S1. 


OUR  DEAD  PRESIDENT. 

BY  C.   H.   C. 

[From  The  New-York  Tribune.] 
WHO  has  the  fitting  word, 
When  every  breast  is  stirred 

With  sorrow  far  too  deep  for  words  to  tell  ? 
Yet  as,  amid  death's  gloom, 
Friends  whisper  in  the  room, 

We  speak  of  him  who  lived  and  died  so  well. 

Night  reigned  beside  the  sea, 
When  morning  camo  to  thee, 

Long-waiting  heart,  so  patient  and  so  brave! 
Light  fell  upon  thy  door, 
Pain  ceased  forevermore, 

Back  to  its  Maker  fled  the  life  he  gave. 


78  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

•  Like  messengers  in  quest, 
Then  started  east  and  west 

Two  tidal  waves  of  sorrow  round  the  world : 
'Millions  of  eyes  were  wet 
Before  the  tidings  met 
Where  in  the  Eastern  'seas  our  flags  are  furled. 

Quickly,  through  throbbing  wire, 
Those  waves  of  sorrow  dire 

Awoke  across  the  land  the  mournful  bells: 
Men  roused,  and  could  not  sleep ; 
For,  pulsing  strong  and  deep, 

All  hearts  that  knew  were  ringing  funeral  knells. 

Wives  gazed  in  husbands'  eyes, 
And  tears  would  slowly  rise 

For  her  who  fought  with  Death  so  long  alone ; 
And  children  with  no  task 
Were  left  themselves  to  ask, 

Why  Death  this  father  took,  and  not  their  own. 

On  all  the  shadow  falls: 
It  hushes  college  halls, 

It  consecrates  the  cabins  of  the  West ; 
The  f  reedmen  loved  him  well ; 
Soldiers  his  praises  tell ; 

The  rudest  boatman  is  too  sad  to  jest. 

Still,  over  hills  and  dells, 
The  beautiful  sad  bells 

Repeat  the  nation's  sorrow  for  her  son; 
But  he  doth  hear  the  chime 
Of  a  more  peaceful  clime 

Than  Mentor's  fields  or  quiet  Elberon. 

Like  him,  the  Crucified, 
He,  who  so  calmly  died, 

Has  made  the  world  the  better  for  his  pain: 
Surely  we  now  may  know 
Our  leader  was  laid  low 

To  lift  the  nation  to  a  higher  plane. 

We  say  as  once  he  said,  — 
Our  hero-ruler  dead,  — 

"  The  Lord  still  reigns,  the  country  is  secure." 
There's  none  can  fill  his  place: 
Rule  Thou,  O  God  of  grace! 

And  guide  us  on  to  days  more  bright  and  pure. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAR  FIELD.  79 

LAKE-VIEW  CEMETERY. 

BY  W.   D.   KELLY. 
[From  The  Boston  Riot.] 

GOD  rest  his  soul!  and  may  the  victor's  crown 

Of  immortality  inwreathe  his  head 

Whose  spirit  from  its  mortal  frame  has  fled! 
Sadly  and  reverently  we  lay  him  down, 
While,  tolling  in  the  city  and  the  town, 

The  bells  ring  requiems  for  our  ruler  dead; 

But  all  the  tears  that  sympathy  can  shed 
Serve  not  the  sorrow  of  our  hearts  to  drown, 
Who  recognize  that  he,  whose  noble  life 

Such  woeful  termination  murder  wrought, 
Was  sacrificed  in  an  ignoble  strife, 

Where  worthless  demagogues  for  office  fought, 
Where  greed  was  uppermost,  and  passion  rife, 

And  honesty  of  purpose  valued  nought. 

Back  from  the  seaside,  where  but  yesterday 

We  bore  him  in  the  hope  the  breezy  shore 

His  failing  forces  might  again  restore, 
Only  to  see  them  slowly  waste  away ; 
Into  the  Capitol,  where,  while  he  lay, 

The  spirits  of  the  great  men  gone  before, 

His  predecessors  in  its  halls  of  yore, 
Kept  watch  and  guard  above  his  pulseless  clay; 
To  this  fair  city  of  the  mighty  West, 

To  the  broad  bosom  of  his  native  State, 
That  nursed  him  for  us  on  her  hardy  breast, 

And  sent  him  forth  to  this  untoward  fate, 
We  bring  his  soulless  shape,  that  it  may  rest 

Within  his  mother's  keeping  and  estate. 

But  he  is  hers  no  more!  the  people  claim 

Him  as  their  heritage;  and  on  the  scrolls 

Where  Immortality  the  names  enrolls 
Of  those  whose  lives  have  won  undying  fame, 
Their  hands  have  written  Garfield's,  and  the  same 

Shall  have  a  charm  to  move  our  children's  souls 

As  long  as  democratic  pride  controls 
Their  hearts,  and  murder  be  accounted  shame: 


80  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAR  FIELD. 

The  South  shall  vie  in  praises  with  the  North, 
The  East  yield  not  in  worship  to  the  West, 

But  all  alike  pay  homage  to  his  worth, 

Who,  if  he  failed  in  some  things,  stood  the  test 

Of  his  last,  greatest  trial,  and  went  forth 

Out  of  his  own  land,  mourned  by  all  the  rest. 

No  king  was  he!  but  never  king,  I  trow, 
Wore  richer  diadems  than  these  our  love 
Places  to-day  his  poor,  pale  brows  above. 

We  could  not  crown  him  while  he  lived ;  but  now 

That  he  has  gone  from  us,  our  hands  endow 
Him  with  the  sceptre,  and  our  hearts  approve 
Whatever  honors  patriotism  may  move 

The  land  to  give  him :  fifty  millions  bow 

In  grief  beside  this  Presidential  grave, 
Where  the  dark  cypresses  their  branches  toss, 

Who  mourn  that  neither  prayer  nor  skill  could  save 
Their  country  from  the  anguish  of  his  loss, 

And  each  one  feels  the  crowns  that  monarchs  have, 
Compared  to  his,  are  vile  and  worthless  dross. 

And  thus  we  leave  him  in  his  narrow  bed, 
Anear  the  margin  of  yon  placid  lake, 
Where  the  soft  music  of  the  waves  that  break 
Upon  the  sandy  shores  beneath  us  spread, 
Sing  their  eternal  requiems  for  the  dead ; 
But  what  can  heal  the  wounds  that  bleed  and  ache 
In  hearts  that  loved  him  for  his  own  dear  sake, 
And  will  not  in  their  grief  be  comforted ! 
O  Christ!  who,  when  the  widow  lost  her  son, 

Gave  him  baek  life  to  ease  his  mother's  dole  ; 
With  whom  the  endless  ages  are  but  one, 

That  has  no  origin,  that  knows  no  goal, — 
We  do  not  murmur  that  thy  will  is  done, 
But  crave  thy  rest  for  this  beloved  soul. 


AN    ELEGANT    EDITION 

or 

THE  POETS'  TRIBUTES 


GARFIELD, 


In  cloth  and  gilt  binding,  is  now   in   preparation. 


IT  WILL   CONTAIN    MANY   ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


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